Whoso List to Hunt, I Know Where Is an…Ass
Never fall in love with a poet.
Ah well, too late to unring that bell.
Over twenty years ago they met, and the world stopped spinning.
He’s a poet and a dreamer.
He always finds a way to say “no”.
And then he suffers the same sensual and sexual torment as she does.
This is what we in the psychoanalytic biz call f***ed up.
He wants what she wants, but he isn’t willing to give up anything to get it.
The more cynical analysts call this “My Wife Won’t Let Me Syndrome”.
OK, fine. Time to back slowly away…
Maybe take one or two last shots at that exquisitely erotic area between his ears. What the hell…
He likes poetry. Find him a poem.
Oh yeah. That one you did in high school for your senior term paper. Sir Thomas Wyatt, Whoso List to Hunt. On a whim, because Wyatt was a cool dude, and supposedly one of your ancestors. Though it was through his wife, Joan Beaufort, that all the really snooty old Norman pedigree flowed. So saith the old DAR types. You never really believed them, but at least it’s a fun storyline.
Some dispute over whether Wyatt was a good poet. He popularized the sonnet in England , and the world’s been going downhill ever since.
Sonnet this, farmboy…
But she can’t stay angry with him. He’s just too devastatingly desirable. So he stays away and flaunts himself at her. He knows he’ll get what he wants — but what the hell does he want, and why does he want it?
Open another bottle of Bordeaux and call in the fools. Let the entertainment begin. Maybe it will take her mind of all this poetic bullshit.
But he knows that if he ever gets caught alone with her, it’s all over. That’s been blindingly obvious from the very beginning. In about fifteen seconds their fate was signed, sealed, and delivered.
Not that it matters.
But he’d better watch his back. If she sneaks up behind him and puts her hand down his jeans, it’s all over.
He knows it, too.
At least they are honest with one another.
Tomorrow is not guaranteed to any of us.
Day before yesterday she was almost run over by a bus.
She’s not sure whether to feel shaken or just gloriously pre-disastered.
But she still needs him.
And it hurts.
Maybe Spring will help.
He knows how she feels. He loves every morsel of her. Just not enough to rip his clothes off.
In the immortal words of Junior Wells, “One…two…You know what to do!” *
*Junior Wells and Buddy Guy. Intro to Messin’ With the Kid, Montreux version, op.cit.