Queer Theory

Old Jane Gallagher, she was fine, in that sun shining on an every-day-girl sort of way. Giggling as her checkers clacked and she stacked up her kings, funny how young women enter men’s senses and take over their hearts. Young women with fresh friendly faces, and smooth, soft skin, basking in the glow of adolescent light during comfortable, warm, summer days, embedding colloquial tones into malleable brains of dreaming young men. There, they reside in ideal perfection with their skinny naked step fathers prancing around, showing off hairy legs and sipping cheap booze to numb exhibitionist tendencies. Soft-shoeing on the men’s room floor in your red, felt, hunting hat, what do you think you’re doing? Young man filled with illusions of sweet girls sipping sun tea and playing games with neighbor boys. That handsome sporty roommate scraping off his five-o-clock shadow is going to conquer your innocent princess in the back seat of a darkened, parked car. Go down and tell her, “Hello!” Go on, don’t be shy! She only bites at the peak of her lust. Like you had a chance, putting a half nelson on your sporty roommate, your skinny arms couldn’t hold old Jane, let alone, a broad shouldered stud wearing your hound’s tooth jacket. Poor skinny hipster should be writing about sexy Jane Gallagher, not sexy men entertaining Jane’s periphery existence. Better let some repulsive coincidence take your mind off the intimacy you’ll be missing. Your coming-of-age tale will be watching an unkempt recluse squeezing a large puss filled zit in the mirror.