>>> The Lady's Shave April 14, 2008
By staff writer NG Hatfield
April 14, 2008
Crazy Girlfriend wears silk panties colored rainbow or baby blue. She bounds from bed to bed, espousing popular culture, music television, fine eateries. She braids her scarlet hair with some blue flag—a flag from a peaceful country—applies rouge to her buttocks and labia. Her eyes are constantly wet and irritated, like from cigar smoke or some recent death. She may cover these in large, ugly sunglasses or with her hand, but know that these eyes are sodden from the knowledge of something boyfriends cannot fathom—something frightening and empowering. She has known this since she grew breasts and bled and cried. How fortunate you are, however, that when you insert your penis, she’ll be debating the validity of all fact. She’ll question you with her legs, run them down your flanks and up with your thrust. Her approval is in her teeth, as they gear and grind together. This only lasts as long as a plucked flower’s fragrance, but is sweeter and more potent.
Crazy Girlfriend is massive. Her body is composed of bouquets, sectioned like the business district of some illustrious city. Indigo. Crimson. Blood. Cherry. Carnation. Her arms rib out to delicate claws, colored black or tabby. Her paws are sympathetic and not to be feared unless rabid inheritance causes you to shake your fist at her, chase her through the kitchen with a broom or place a brown papered bag over her head. She will then lash out, quickly, then apologize. Do not believe this. Her anger is like the slow drip of saliva from a cow’s muzzle. She will not forgive. She will only put eggs in the pan and let them fry disdainfully.
“Crazy Girlfriend holds a key in her breast. For this key, there is no lock to be filled, opened.”
Crazy Girlfriend admits to hatred. She hates the following most: the Orient, babies, angels, the News, other women. Of all these hatreds, for the most part, she hates the other women. Each woman wants the world as her own, but wants to want it too. Understanding this is wearisome, like untangling from thin, cotton strings spanning ceiling to floor. It is infuriating, too, but you should only look off to stars and think of dragons, that your manhood be not questioned because of insatiability. Please yourself with masturbation, a reminder that you are still a chest-haired convict, abetted for an hour. The fear will seep out of you in sperm and should be placed, dated and remembered in a jar beside a photograph of your family.
Crazy Girlfriend resigns herself to God. She, herself, is proof of Religion, at least in her devotion. Her hair translates scripture. Her lips are vehicles for some wanton spirit. She will not speak of your beliefs or gods. Her God is that of servitude, and church attendance is mandatory. Pity is your strongest weapon. Drink before the service, heavily, twice in her presence, twice not, then give up only red wine. But do this wholly and without question. Say you’re sorry, that your fucking trying to change for her, but it’s going to take some time.
Crazy Girlfriend levies herself with the burden of mass opinion. This makes it easier for her to swim in public, to wear revealing clothes, but will cause difficulties in love making (for nature proves) or spotting her in a crowd of like-minded women. You may not find her for hours if she shares the same name as another.
She is named Elizabeth or Victoria. Or the name of some foreign queen. Even if her name is Britney, she’ll believe her spirit to be regal, stately. Never deny this fact, her fashion, and support her with roses, chocolates, steak dinners. If she kills the roses with too much aspirin, throws away the chocolates, eats only the Caesar salad, she is only hiding something that is already buried and cursed to stay within her forever.
Crazy Girlfriend feigns illness. Her mind is a coffer of imagined death. Flu, cold, small poxes, pertussis, yellow fevers. Each little bug will pass through her and through you as some minor effect. Her true health depends on Spring, but she’ll wish only for the heat of Summer. The latter will be your most opportune time to propose an orgy. The former, a time you should tape your hands to a remote control or a pitching wedge or a soldering iron and accustom yourself to waiting.
Crazy Girlfriend says: “The sun is an ornament for which I need two!” “Hunger is impassive, and that is enough,” and “Come to me, come to me, darling. I need you this evening to sway in the hammock and comb back my hair as I dream of your penis. I need you this evening because I’m lonely. I’m lonely because—well I don’t know. Just stay here for awhile and brush my hair from my eyes. Dance with me. Dance like we’re fucking and we’ll fuck like we’re dancing. I’m lonely and alone, even with you here. Can’t you be more comforting, just this evening?”
Crazy Girlfriend hates her father, she drinks directly from a rusty spigot. She laughs as the water drips from her chin and reflects sunlight on the greasy basement wall. She’ll smell of blackberries and keep her favorite feature sacred. “Legs.” “Eyes.” These two answers are to two questions that you will be asked before traveling farther.
Crazy Girlfriend cheats. Each time you hear of her betrayal, from her friends or her mother, be thankful that she’ll insist on prophylactic use and not speak directly to you about the others. Kiss her thoroughly, passionately, each time may be your last. Do not let vantage or pride set in to your lips or temples, it proves counterproductive. You will not marry this type of girlfriend, she is of a cat: alone, uncharitable. Her eyes are mysterious and you will dote upon them in poem, to friends.
Allow them the charity of warning you of this woman, her magic hand. They are correct in assumption in nearly every case. Each boyfriend has had this woman, remembers her, then thanks his steady wife for a burned grilled cheese and his mortgage payment, I’ve been told.
Crazy Girlfriend holds a key in her breast. It’s made of brass and very small, that you might not notice it when making love, etc. This key is never yours; in attempting to find/ take it, you’ll only bruise her body. She may allow a viewing through a small opening at the base of her neck but you should stay in rank. Do not look directly upon it, do not admire it as you would a diamond. Do not move to touch it, if you do you will be wholly disappointed. It will shine, very briefly. However, you will extinguish it like an alter boy concluding mass. Her fire and her freedom depend wholly on this brass key. Pity her for your life because for this key, there is no lock to be filled, opened.
Crazy Girlfriend fulfills a dream. She will climb your finest curtain and spin her head clockwise. She lights a cigarette and guides a ship full of ghosts to your dining table. She is necessary and black, like Passover or the last paycheck from working at a mortuary. When she sleeps, you’ll know what’s she dreaming by the snakes of light that fly from her navel. They are red and white.
To find Crazy Girlfriend: Go to the neighborhood pool early on the seventh Sunday of Spring. There, lay out your woolen towel flat and press down any flaws that may have occurred in the process of its swaying in the wind, down to the concrete. Wait there for an hour, or two, listen to the birds. The jay, the cardinal, the oriole, etc. Come to know each sound intimately. Timbre will help you in your own process of being swat upon. A pair of good binoculars are advantageous. Watch them preen and plume.
When Crazy Girlfriend shows, you should be moderately drunk and whistling like the bird that suits you. She’ll approach you and you must recite the pledge. She’ll stand, arms crossed, waiting for your pledge. What will you say but I love you?
“You said once that I kiss like a carpet-bagger. I say now that you kiss like a coward. I cannot love you but would like a try at it.”
You have dared the Crazy Girlfriend and given credence to her knowledge of our nature, past. In doing so, a spring will click behind her left eye. You will know if she’s enticed by this clicking noise’s tempo, by instinct. Click. Click. Click. She’ll smack you on the chest, keep the hand on your nipple for a brief moment, then scratch down to your penis, drawing blood. Do not sneer or break or curse God. She is testing you like her ancestors tested monarchs and priests.
Crazy Girlfriend fucks. In the pool, the chlorine on you, burning like acid, her eyes will lock to yours and you must come readily inside of her. It will feel of a train ride through the mountains of October, orange will blur your sight and your skin will feel of piles upon piles of wet leaves. Your tongue will taste of bergamot. Your soul will be wreathed in sentiment. But you must come readily, then forget your youth completely.
Crazy Girlfriend kills then turns to ash. Her hands rip chests again and again, like a child ungluing fresh, golden sap from an Oak tree. She’ll put your innards into a cauldron and try to melt, purify out, some brown stain that reminds you of her enemies. These are always the Women of your Past: your mother, your sister, your first kiss, your first sex, your daughters. This will, of course, not work, and she’ll only shriek for nights.
You have no option in this matter: she will leave you and you will be brave.
You will return home, sullen, but with a jar of fireflies.