My brain is about to explode with all the budding and pollination and horniness that's out and about. There is nothing worse than Spring. The weather is all nice. The grass is starting to come in clean and fresh. Flowers are blooming blooms that would make O'Keeffe blush. Everything is in the mood to have sex. Everything.
I saw a hornet trying to copulate with a piece of fuzz floating through the air. It would wrap its horny hornet legs around it, try to mate with it only to find itself falling to the ground. Then it would release its fuzzy lover, reevaluate the situation for a millisecond and try again. Holy crap, did it ever want to do that piece of fuzz.
The other night I was home by myself. My brain could not focus on anything- mostly because it was recovering from a rough and rowdy two day party binge- but also because it could not get the idea of Spring out of its little wrinkles.
And for some reason On Walden Pond popped into my head.
Henry David Thoreau. Damn. What a looker.
I had to use Image Google to recall what exactly it was about him that made my brain rip Walden Pond from my archives. After I realized that I was typing in James Thoreau instead of Henry David Thoreau, I was greeted by the face that I had doodled one too many times in my high school art book.
Mmm. M. M. If the water's a lapping, don't come a tapping. Especially you, Taxman.
Abraham Lincoln was next.
Lincoln had some really sexy eyes. He did. All bedroomy and nice eyebrows to boot. Lips of a good kisser. Big hands. (You know what that means, right ladies? Absolutely nothing. Don't believe what you read in Cosmopolitan. Except the part where it tells you that you're fat and that the only way a man will love you or even look at you is if you were Aveda's $36.99 "Blasted Nutmeg" eyeshadow. That part is true.)
My brain was getting what it needed- looking at hot hotties from history while also brushing up on some history.
Caesar. Nice bod. Awesome facial features. Skin like marble. Conquered some place.
Rembrandt Peale. Wow. Was he ever good looking. And he painted a picture of a sheet that I thought was a photograph. That makes him even sexier.
Alexander Graham Bell. Not the classic handsome guy- but you could just tell that he'd be the type of guy that you'd want to talk on the phone with for hours. That's such a shitty joke, but it's true. If you can pull mutton chops off and still look good you get a grade 'E' from Leroy: a Hot. E.
There were also the expected hotties from history:
R. M. Rilke (in certain light)
F. Scott Fitzgerald (in every light)
It occurs to me now that maybe this is how I survived High School. I've written before about the absence of any sort of action during my teen years, so I won't bore you with the details. But after spending my Saturday night appeasing the brain with googled images of hot historic men, I fell into the same sort of emotional roller coaster that I rode on constantly in 1993 through 1996. Tapping leg. Quickened pulse. Sighing. Alot of sighing. Thoughts of top hats, powdered wigs, Puritan-styled waistcoats in dense fabrics of blue and black strewn about in reckless abandon. I think this paragraph alone seals my fate as being an eternal dork.
I'm just a hornet looking for a little fuzz to perch upon and mate with, baby. Don't blame me. It's spring. You're probably suffering from it, too and just aren't dorky enough to admit it.