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In Defense of My Existence

25 September 2005


I love the forearms of my hairy friend, Jane. And the wispy, black hairs that give her the sideburns of a teenaged boy trying to grow a goatee to prove his manhood to his friends and the popular girls in school; but feminine. And the whiskers at the corners of her mouth that she often forgets to trim that complement a robust neckbeard, far more defined than any I could ever sport. But it is Jane's forearms that seduce me.

Even my beau, as butch as he may be--except when forced to react to the world around him after a few martinis at the quaint, neighborhood bar we frequent--has forearms so bare as to warrant an occasional suggestion that he performs in drag.

Not so, Jane's.

When Jane's arms wrap around me--whether for a grand "hello" or a reassuring "see you soon"--the expected feelings of maternal warmth mingle with a sense of peace and security found in the embrace of a long gone, ever-distant father and the dark, fuzzy hair of his forearms.


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