It used to be crotches. When I walked down the street in a certain state of mind, crotches were the things that drove me to distraction. But not in the way the perverted among you are sure to think. No, I wasn’t after the meat of the matter. I didn’t want what lurked behind a thick layer of denim or nestled beneath a flimsy fold of chiffon. My focus was just on the “Y” that was formed at the junction of thigh and groin and crotch (sort of like the traditional “fork in the road” that comes up in almost every set of driving directions anyone has ever given me). Why, I don’t know. I just knew Y.
Most recently it’s been noses. Honkers haunt me. People approach and all I see are two holes surrounded by an oily mound of thick flesh. Their potato-y proboscises. Snorty snouts. I have to quell the urge to rush over to them, take their noses between my fingers (sheathed in a protective glove), and twist them off in a bloody version of “Who’s Got Your Nose?”, a game I detested even when I was young enough to be expected to think it was fun, back when the nose-getting was just figurative. Who nose why.
Oh, and it’s been ears, too. One day maybe you’ll hear about that. And how when I see your ears I realize they literally lead inside your head. And how I know that if I pull on your earlobe firmly as you tilt your head toward me, brain condensation will drip out and your memories will puddle at my feet.