I Hate Valentine’s Day and Some Poetic Dieting Advice

Story Number 18: Grapes of Irony Number 8, Poem Number 3

(Preamble written 2/14/23—so I get extra credit for NOT publishing on Valentine’s Day; I try to be respectful. Poem written 4/21/22.) 

(Warning:  Naughtiness below.  You have been warned!)

I hate Valentine’s Day.  I do not hate the concept of love.  What I hate is that for some, especially the less-than-romantic and the traditional non-givers, Valentine’s Day becomes their reminder that, “Oh yes, I am supposed to show I love you today.  Today only.  Today I will buy you over-priced flowers, because I have to.  I will buy you a pre-printed card, with words I did not have to take the effort to think of by myself, and may not mean.  I will take you to a restaurant, one over-crowded, getting in line with all the other vacuous sheep, to eat a ‘romantic’ meal, because corporate America and capitalist cupids have ensured from the outside looking in I will look like a shit if I do not do this, even though, internally I am a shit, but only you, my love, should know this.  All the people in the exterior should think I am a suave Don Fucking Juan.”

Gloria-

Money is Short

Times are Hard

Here’s Your Fucking

Valentine’s Card

Meet me at Taco Bell for our romantic dinner.

Love, Mike

My intention is not to shit on those of you Fabulous Readers who do love and celebrate Valentine’s Day.  Hey, you do you.  If VD means something to you, go for it.  I hope you revel in it and it brings you great joy and that whomever you are celebrating it with truly, deeply loves, knows and respects you, and you know this every day.

Oh shit, is today Valentine’s Day?

I wonder if I can still get her one of those single roses, wrapped in rigid plastic that they sell at the register in the gas station. Oh, I can get her a candy bar there too! I wonder if they sell greeting cards at the gas station. Hmmm, how much change do I have on me?

My humble opinion of romance and romantic gestures, is that they should be heartfelt and come from the deep internal place that is the well of true love and caring, nurtured by the time spent together as a couple and built on that place that is only known and understood by the two of you, intimate and special.  Out of that place should come the gestures that show one is thought about and loved.  It is all about receiving that “just because” gift on a seemingly random, ordinary day.  This gift should be inspired by seeing something that you know your partner would love and you know this because you listen to your partner, know their likes and dislikes, know their tribulations and triumphs, and it is important to you that they know just how much, and why, you love them.  The gift could be, not just a thoughtful item, but your time, your effort, your words, acts of service, soft touches, smiles and knowing looks across a room.  But these things should come from your deep inside place, just to the right of your heart, not from the reminders that are billboards, TV ads or social media pop-up, or grotesque, over-stuffed, garish store displays being put up as Christmas displays are being taken down; the “oh yes” reminders that the one day to show your love is coming.

Oh fuck, really? My Valentine’s gift is a balloon from the dollar store?! And no flowers!? I must be sooo loved and appreciated.

I may detest Valentine’s Day, but I am rather fond of physical affection served with a generous helping of emotional connection.  Last year when I thought the chance for such affection was upon me, I knew I needed to lose some weight, because being over-weight, for me, does not make for good sex.  So, I lost 27 pounds.  My strong desire for great sex seemed to block my horrendous food cravings, and for the first time in my life, losing weight was actually easy.  If I started to slip, in allowing thoughts of food dance around in my mind, I just reminded myself how much I wanted to enjoy some wild sex.  It was using the concept of reframing as a diet plan.  Me being me, the outgrowth of using sex as a platform for a dieting plan included my absurd and wickedly delightful thoughts about the situation being rendered into these words:

Yes, Sex Please

I want the good sex,

the kind the pudge doesn’t allow.

How did I get this way?

Let me tell you how.

I ate, the cupcake,

My house, it burnt, and so did my town.

That cupcake,

I ate it, because I was so down.

I ate lots of food, because

my job was stressful as shit,

I ate that sweet food,

and then, I ate more of it.

But mostly I ate the food,

because my heart,

it was broken,

so I ate more and more food,

the food,

where I kept finding my fo’k in.

Gobble, gobble,

especially the sweets.

Cake, cereal, chips,

all the really nice treats.

I haven’t had sex,

no sex in five years,

so I eat the sweet sweets

and I have lots of tears.

But then I thought the moment may be upon me,

the likelihood of sex,

this chubby situation of mine,

was some sort of hex.

All those hours

of all that eating,

for the good sex,

I’ll be dammed if they’ll be competing.

The giddy thought,

in my lust-soaked brain,

is that I want him to find me,

hot to trot

and not, in dessert pain.

To the lemon tart it is a “no!”

Fuck off you damn tart!

Damn tart, you must go!

Now what I say is “Yes, sex please!”

with very heavy sighs,

emanating from my heart,

or wait, is that coming my from between my thighs?

No, you wicked éclair,

you die your sweet death.

Leave me forever more!

Because I say,

with a lusty, moaning breath:

Yes, sex please!

No, to the brownie,

all gooey and rich,

eaten when I was frowny,

but now I wanna be

a really hot bitch!

Yes, sex please!

I want him to bend me over,

I want him to twist me up.

And I will say NO!, NO! to the Reese’s

peanut butter cup!

Yes, sex please!

I wanna ride him like a cowgirl,

I want it all hot and steamy,

so no I say to the cake,

because he is way too dreamy.

Yes, sex please.

I’m gonna give up the cookie.

I’m feeling all wet,

and all I want

is that damn nookie,

That damn nookie, you bet!

Yes, sex please!

Hot fudge sundae,

all creamy, sweet, and scalding.

Oh I love you so.

But I love me some hard spanking,

so you too, must go.

Yes, sex please.

I’m gonna give up the pie

all tart and juicy.

Go fuck yourself pie,

I only have visions

of him,

binding me up, and not at all loosely!

Yes, sex please.

Waiter, please don’t take this the wrong way,

but when you ask me if I want dessert,

here is what I am going to say….

Yes, SEX please!!!

I just want it to be sex,

Yes sex all the way!

When I wrote this poem last year, the guy who was its impetus turned out to be a scammer.  I thought this was a funny, great piece, but because horrible circumstances became attached to it, I could not bring myself to publish it; it was painful.  Also, some of its stanzas were a bit stilted and it felt a bit unpolished and unfinished in some way.  But now I have every reason to publish it and current circumstances have allowed me to polish and perfect it.  I believe it was meant to be published now, in its full glory and, I must say, this feels delightful!!  Thanks Steve. 

(Oh Steve, WHAT have you gotten yourself into?!  Buckle up; it’s going to be a wild ride!!)

Also, Universe, thanks for the ironic nod and blessing of Steve and I exploring and cementing our relationship during the Valentine season, You funny, twisted, rapturous, jolly bastard You!  I still hate fucking Valentine’s Day though.