Dear Miss Informed,
I am an English composition and creative writing instructor, experiencing great romantic pain at a small, Midwestern women’s college. You see, I have fallen desperately in love with the woman here who coaches basketball. She has the cutest little buzz-cut, yet seems reluctant to acknowledge my existence. The poems I sent her were many, for lyrical self-expression is, after all, my bailiwick, or purview, if you will. I endeavored to merge her interest in sports with my tumescent ardor. For instance:
May I take the “Liberty”
To comment on your bee-you-tee?
Little I know of women’s sports
For I am sworn to higher Art
But you have made a slam dunk
In the hoop that is my heart.
I went on to rhyme Moon and June and Croon with Weatherspoon. But, alas, nothing worked. My objet d’amour did not return my passion — until last week, when I invited her to my house, on the pretext (O False Be Thy Ways, Cruel Love!) that veteran women’s basketball star — and lesbian icon — Teresa Weatherspoon herself was coming over for a tutorial!
Quick as a bunny in heat, my wonderful Bobbie Marie showed up in my driveway and began to practice lay-up shots!
Suddenly, as I was bringing her the Gatorade that she had requested, Bobbie Marie threw herself on top of me, exciting my poetic gifts!
She was like a sweaty gust of wind, careening tumescently down my lonely, hollow woman’s canyon. Moistly, her dulcetly nimble tongue roared in my ear, as her pelvis ground impertinently into my nubile kidneys.
“I really like you,” moaned my virile Amazon. “Let’s go steady.”
I screamed in pain — then, in womon-identified ardor.
It was all I could do to heave Bobbie’s wetly undulating body into the garage, where I fell longingly onto her many tumescent outstretched lips — and, unfortunately, onto an old ping-pong table. Our breasts intertwined, like four lost kittens mewing hotly in the rain. I screamed again; this time in fear and ecstasy. Joyously, the ping-pong table collapsed.
Later, we made love.
But after another rousing two hours of passion — and with Teresa Weatherspoon nowhere in sight — I turned to find my adored Bobbie Marie pulling on her Nikes, dusting off her ball, and dribbling indifferently out of my life.
Now she barely speaks to me, preferring to be seen in the company of the male coaches and professors. I fear she is ashamed of our Sapphic idyll, and wishes to deny the throbbing hues of her womon-identified libido.
My query is: Should I continue my attempts to rekindle our flame? My driveway is so deeply empty. What, O what, shall I do?
Dear Bereft, If True Love doesn’t come again to your garage, at least you can find comfort in the fact that you have a wonderful future writing lesbian porn!
What you need, honey, is a good DE-FENSE! It is a tragic irony that Bobbie Marie chooses to be seen in the company of manly men so that society will accept her predilection for dribbling her own balls. Three lashes with a wet whip for your ersatz date. People like Bobbie Marie are truly pitiable human beings — and will get theirs. Meanwhile, you should try to cultivate empathy for them.
As an example of empathy cultivation, why not imagine yourself in Bobbie Marie’s place? FEEL her longing for heterosexual validation, her sense of incompletion without a suitable “beard.” Why not help her get one?
Using your erotic writing expertise, dash off two or three tumescent sentences summarizing Bobbie Marie’s longing for a “hot-stud-I-don’t-have-to-do-it-with.” Then sign Bobbie Marie’s name and place your little composition in the Personals section of Soldier of Fortune magazine. Great empathy will follow.
Snide Lines
Dear Miss Informed, I completely disagree with your advice to the gay kindergarten teacher who wrote you asking whether he should “come out” in the classroom. You suggested that he integrate his lifestyle into his mainstream lesson plans, to come up with “liberating alternatives.”
Yeah, right. I followed your asinine instructions and it was a total nightmare. Songs and stories like “Pouf, the Magic Dragon,” “The Little Engine That Shouldn’t Have But Did,” and “Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel Meets Jack and His Beanstalk” may sound workable, but in fact stir up quite a bit of naughtiness, especially during naptime.
I hold you personally responsible for the loss of my job and the fact that half of last year’s preschoolers will probably never voluntarily take First Communion. I’ll never be able to think of “show and tell” again without wanting to retch.
Please withhold my name if you decide to print this. I’ve had enough trouble because of you.
Dear Name Withheld, I am sorry the wisdom inherent in my advice did not enlighten you. Nobody’s perfect, Father O’Casey. Oops.
Good luck with your job search, dear!
Susie Day is the author of “Snidelines: Talking Trash to Power,” from Abingdon Square Publishing.
