Page 35 - October 2020
P. 35

At 18, I snipped and clipped that dirty-blond hair until I
                                almost resembled Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby, and
                                pealing  bells  went  off  in  my  head  as  I  sashayed  my
                                newly revamped pixie self through a reckless coven of
                                promiscuous fire. Suddenly  my  life  was  all  cigarettes,
                                catcalls,  caterwauling, and (oh, yeah) college. No corn
                                silk or corn stalks, for I was a purebred Brooklyn wench,

                                tumbling  headlong  into  a  pool  of  poetry  and  petrol.
                                Mood  rings  and  mood  swings  in  my  pink  opium  den.
                                Merriment  and  mayhem  in  bedlam.  Tequila  Sunrise
                                rainbows  through  cut-glass  mosaics.  Mounted  black
                                track lights, waft of spiced musk and pungent patchouli,
                                setting the scene for selected readings from the Kama
                                Sutra.  Naughty  girl,  bawdy  girl,  haughty  girl.  Saturday
                                night slutting (Mom’s scowling word) on the steamy Bay
                                Road  in  the  fervid  glands  of  summer.  The  hunks,  an
                                embarrassment  of  riches:  miscellaneous  pizza  boys,
                                Harvard-educated       Norwegian       tennis     coach,     the
                                narcissist next door, and friends of a friend of a friend of
                                my boyfriend. Goldilocks strumpet with a penchant for
                                the callow boys—the cougar and her colts (and a Jewish

                                stallion  or  two).  They  fed  me  things:  iced  red  grapes,
                                Godiva  truffles  doused  with  sweet  liqueur,  and  even
                                recouped my beloved long-lost Oreos.

                                Then,    as    in   most     superficial    but    submerged
                                transformations,  Ms.  Vixen  in  Venus  put  away  her
                                rubber  playthings,  kissed  all  the  Georgie  Porgies
                                goodbye, and re-crossed her now matronly legs.

                                You will note that there is indeed a swan at the crux of
                                this  story.  But  no  piglets  or  pigeons.  Why?  Because,
                                dear friends, this is your sacred terrain, and who the hell
                                am I to trample on that?

                                    Cindy  Hochman  is  the  president  of  "100  Proof"
                                    Copyediting Services and the editor-in-chief of the online
                                    poetry      journal       First     Literary      Review-
                                    East  (  She  is  on  the  book  review
                                    staff  of  Pedestal  Magazine  and  has  written  reviews  for
                                    many publications. Cindy resides in Brooklyn, New York
                                    (USA),  where  she  studies  the  Russian  language  and
                                    agonizes over politics.
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