G went to my head through a hole in my heart

G came to my house party all interesting and talented and stuff. James Dean Poindexter with a sexy leather satchel and a corduroy jacket with elbow patches.

G has nice full lips, dark unkempt hair, sweet decent eyes, a sketchbook and a strong desire.

G dances like a white boy, like a drunk white boy, like a cute-indie-poet-artist-confused-dorky-cocksure-cool-as-hell white boy, and he owns it!

G stumbles during our Soul Train dancing, a group of drunkers in a circle-jerk-dance-off. I pull out my best Tony Manero moves and pummel the competition with my pelvis action.

“G” I say, “why don’t you retire, sleep, that is, in my bed.” An innocent proposal, Honest injun. With all good intentions connected I keep on shakin’ my groove thang.

G is in my bed as I zombie stagger into my room. Forgetting it was my suggestion he stay there, remembering what its like to vibrate all over.

Gee, can’t remember much of the rest of that night, a haze of tears mixed with clumsy drunken fumblings.

G is as sweet and decent as his eyes said he would be. My battered heart aches for a little tenderness, which he so politely-undeservedly-undertakes.

G leaves the next morning without saying goodbye, don’t blame him I would have high tailed it as well.

G tends to avoid me now

Too bad, I really like G.