No Contact Boxing Match Ends in a TKO
Almost tonight, let’s not and say we did.
—John Ashbery
What is foreplay
but oodles of
TEASE in such
a scenario
Almost tonight, let’s not and say we did.
—John Ashbery
What is foreplay
but oodles of
TEASE in such
a scenario
as a long-
distance
romance?
Who’s on
top without
contact? Can’t
penetrate without
the glove on (or
in). So the gloves
are off! Again,
dispense (with)
Who’s on
top without
contact? Can’t
penetrate without
the glove on (or
in). So the gloves
are off! Again,
dispense (with)
the impossibilities.
Forego the ob
vious, true or
false? Let’s
forego the
obvious,
true as it is.
I think it’s
time I knew
your address.
But, as a guess
timate: 4,501
miles. Wait,
isn’t that
written as if
the onus is on
me? Hm. 7,244
kilometers...wait!
Isn’t that written
...onus on you?
Fine, then, and
don’t say it’s
only fair, as
nothing could
be fair here,
buddy: how’s
3,912 nautical
miles? Nobody
can call bias
on that number;
nobody’s stuck
with the onus.
Except the both
of us. An onus,
something that
given the circum
stances might be
said fives times
fast (an-onus-an-
onus-an-etc.)
so that it might
generate a
tingle, albeit
still a hypo
thetical vibra
tion? If we were
(and again, every
thing’s so impos
sible, so,
hypothetically,)
on the bridge of
the Starship
Enterprise,
and Cap’n
Picard were to
say (if we were
there but for
a short while,
surely it’d be):
“Make it so!”
I’d say, “Yes
captain!” And,
oh, a few short
minutes later,
“and by virtue
of the authority
in me, vested by
the Federation. . .”.
I get so giddily lost
in such a fantasy
spaceship romance
that I don’t even
notice you leaning
toward me slowly,
that is until our
noses are almost
touching. My
temperature
rises an instant
5 degrees Celsius
(so that you will
get it) and my
tears well up
as I just know
you’re going to
say “I do.” Our
noses, at 2 inches
or 5 centimeters
apart, about the
width of a baby
tribble. My nose
being nearly at your
Forego the ob
vious, true or
false? Let’s
forego the
obvious,
true as it is.
I think it’s
time I knew
your address.
But, as a guess
timate: 4,501
miles. Wait,
isn’t that
written as if
the onus is on
me? Hm. 7,244
kilometers...wait!
Isn’t that written
...onus on you?
Fine, then, and
don’t say it’s
only fair, as
nothing could
be fair here,
buddy: how’s
3,912 nautical
miles? Nobody
can call bias
on that number;
nobody’s stuck
with the onus.
Except the both
of us. An onus,
something that
given the circum
stances might be
said fives times
fast (an-onus-an-
onus-an-etc.)
so that it might
generate a
tingle, albeit
still a hypo
thetical vibra
tion? If we were
(and again, every
thing’s so impos
sible, so,
hypothetically,)
on the bridge of
the Starship
Enterprise,
and Cap’n
Picard were to
say (if we were
there but for
a short while,
surely it’d be):
“Make it so!”
I’d say, “Yes
captain!” And,
oh, a few short
minutes later,
“and by virtue
of the authority
in me, vested by
the Federation. . .”.
I get so giddily lost
in such a fantasy
spaceship romance
that I don’t even
notice you leaning
toward me slowly,
that is until our
noses are almost
touching. My
temperature
rises an instant
5 degrees Celsius
(so that you will
get it) and my
tears well up
as I just know
you’re going to
say “I do.” Our
noses, at 2 inches
or 5 centimeters
apart, about the
width of a baby
tribble. My nose
being nearly at your
nose, a moment that
begins to happily
freeze, and then
you say, just so
that I can hear,
“I think I prefer
to see it lubed
when you’re
getting off.”
3,912 naughty
nautical miles
suddenly van
ish, the sci-fi
non-proposal
non-wedding....
I see. So this,
you might think,
is what long-dis
tance “lovers” do,
begins to happily
freeze, and then
you say, just so
that I can hear,
“I think I prefer
to see it lubed
when you’re
getting off.”
3,912 naughty
nautical miles
suddenly van
ish, the sci-fi
non-proposal
non-wedding....
I see. So this,
you might think,
is what long-dis
tance “lovers” do,
how such a
thing might be
kept real, or,
(excruciating;
all-out wacko,
if you ask me)
at least be
kept just plain
kept just plain
