It’s Raining Men
Mom was smart. After Dad ditched us, she wanted nothing to do with men. Me? Not so much.
Men remind me of that movie with Tom Hanks. No, not the sappy one where he meets Meg Ryan at the top of some building and they live happily ever after. Nor the one where he’s marooned on an island with that stupid volley ball. It’s the one where he’s not so smart, but discovers he’s not so dumb either.
Men, like chocolate, are certainly edible—well, at least some parts. Just like in a box of chocolates a few of them are nuts. With some a girl doesn’t find out what the hell’s inside until she’s taken a bite. And you know how that goes—take a bite out of one and it’s not at all what you’d hoped for. So you stuff it back in the box and try again. And again. Sometimes you have to take a bite out of half a dozen before finding the one you want. Or thought you wanted. Because who just eats one chocolate when they taste so damn good?
Okay, so they don’t taste great all the time. Especially what’s inside—salty and not enough sweet.
After a while, you feel guilty cramming so much chocolate down your throat you hear your mother nagging about the freshman fifteen. Even you’ve become sick of chocolate and throw the damn box away, telling yourself to hell with chocolate.
You go weeks (let’s be real, months) without any at all. Until one day you wonder why you tossed out the box of goodies altogether, wonder if you should run out and find some more. So you put yourself out there, searching for chocolate. Again. You tell yourself, this time it’s going to be rich, smooth, and fine, not that cheap shit you found at the corner drug store Valentine’s Day when all the good chocolate was picked through or taken.
Weeks go by. You’re so desperate for a piece of chocolate that you’ll take any piece. And there it is, bits of shiny wrapper in a dark corner catching your eye. Oooh. Could this be the chocolate? You grab hold, feel around, and it seems like the real deal. Until you bring it into the light, take a real good look, and realize it’s nothing close to what you dreamed of. This chocolate is like that piece stuck at the bottom of your purse, bits of lint and God knows what else it’s attracted. Not so appetizing. You know it. But it’s fucking chocolate. And you’re starving. So you greedily unwrap it and stuff it in your mouth. After you’ve swallowed, it reminds you why you left the damn thing in the bottom of your purse in the first place.
You tell yourself the next time you run across chocolate you’re going to cross the street or head the opposite direction. But there’s only so long you can avoid it, only so many extra blocks you can walk to your one-bedroom house—alone—no chocolate in hand, none melting in your mouth. Yeah, you’re tempted. Then you remember the weight you gained from the last time around. So much weight you couldn’t work it all off. Not in spin class, not from fourteen-hour days in a hot, humid studio, not even after four months of couch time twice a week at a hundred bucks an hour.
After so much time and effort invested in working off chocolate, this time ’round you figure I’ll try out a piece of the fat free, guilt free, sugar substitute shit some cute girl in diet class raved about. Sounds as though it could be a good thing venturing over to the other side. A complete one eighty from chocolate. Nope, not one long, fat ounce of it in your new substitute, but you admit it looks appetizing. The little bitch said this would solve all your problems, so why not give it a whirl? Throwing caution to the wind, you give ’er a taste. Sure you can see the appeal, very soft, milky sweet on the tongue. Yet after so many years of chocolate, the new thing is more of an acquired taste. No bang like real sugar, though it still packs a punch. Like saccharin, it’s much sweeter—almost cloying. You chow down on it for a while, getting full and satisfied. Of course you enjoy a mound of it in your hot hands. Well, two.
Then it hits you one day—you’ve had enough. You give in and dial out for a rush delivery of a huge double chocolate. Hand over fist you devour. You’re like, hell-to-the-O! As in the big O. Looking up at the ceiling as if it were the heavens, you thank the chocolate gods for whoever invented the pill.