From the Archives: You, Hot Guy

Fantasy published in 10 Flash Quarterly, January 2010

You, Hot Guy by Gay Degani

from The Portland Chronicle Personals: 

Screen Shot 2019-04-01 at 1.25.49 PMSPOTTED & SOUGHT / Sunday, January 3

You: man. Hot guy in scruffy beard & flannel shirt, a forty in one hand, a pack of Marlborough’s in the other. W&W: Friday night at the Mobil station. You grinned and said someone with a chassis like mine deserved a better ride. Then you climbed into a 1969 VW bug. But STILL I liked your chassis just fine.

Me: woman. Pumping unleaded into my mama’s rusty Olds Cutlass. Wanna meet? When: Monday at 10 P.M. Where: Mobil station. You: Man. Me: Woman.


from The Portland Chronicle Personals:

SPOTTED & SOUGHT / Wednesday, January 6

You: Mister scruffy & flannel, former hot guy at Mobil station on Friday night, were a no-show.

Me: hot girl with a nice chassis in Oldsmobile.

I waited outside the gas station in the Cutlass for an hour. Two forties and a carton of cigs. WTF, BUG-MAN. I was hoping you’d show up and we could put on some Keith Urban and you could rock my world.

But maybe you don’t read the personals or maybe you didn’t read them on Sunday morning. Maybe you had one helluva hangover and couldn’t crawl out of bed. Or maybe you got sidetracked by some other chick with a nice chassis.

Irregardless, I’m willing to give you another chance because you gave me such a promising smile and your eyes have that little sparkle I like. When: Wednesday at 10 P.M. Where: Mobil station. You: Man. Me: Woman.


from The Portland Chronicle Personals:

SPOTTED & SOUGHT / Friday, January 8

How the hell was I supposed to know you have a girlfriend?

You: hot guy from the Mobil Station.

Me: girl with 4 slit tires on her mom’s Olds.

You could’ve taken out a personal and told me you were spoken for. You didn’t have to send your Amazon girlfriend after me. She is NOT an attractive woman, hot guy. Built like a fucking bear. And she’s strong.

There I was sitting up in the front seat, flipping through People Magazine, when suddenly I thought there was a giant earthquake going on.

I thought she’d roll my mom’s car right into the ditch. Thank goodness I locked my doors, because she pounded and smacked at the glass and I was so scared I peed my pants, thinking she’d pick up a rock and smash my windows.

Guess she isn’t that bright.

She got tired of watching me panic and took off in your VW. I wanted to get the hell out of there, too, but that’s when I realized she’d slit my tires. I was not happy about spending the night out there, a Mobil station being devoid of magic of any kind, but I’m willing to forgive you.

I know you wouldn’t be with that awful woman if you weren’t scared to death, so here’s the plan. When: Saturday night at 12 A.M. Where: At the crossroads rest stop on I-13. You: Man who needs help. Me: Woman willing to give it.

Don’t let the bitch read this!


from  The Portland Chronicle Personals:

SPOTTED & SOUGHT / Sunday, January 10

I gave you plenty of chances, didn’t I?

You: scruffy guy from the Mobil Station. Me: girl with no regrets.

I suppose I should’d been a little more up FRONT with you from the beginning, but sometimes I get a yearning to be like normal girls, who hang out at Curly’s on Saturday night, pick up hot guys, and hook up in the cabs of their trucks.

And that’s where I was going when you showed up on my radar with your scraggly beard and Bud Lights. I thought, there he is, right there, that one.

After the incident at the Mobil station—the one with your gorilla girlfriend—I decided I needed to tap into a little bit of magic I have by way of my mom, she of the Oldsmobile Cutlass. And my father too. Between the two of them, it’s quite a gene pool.

I was hoping none of it would matter. You would read my note and see what a forgiving heart I have and remembering my sweet little chassis, you’d come alone and we could shake things up. But you didn’t.  I stopped dead cent in the crossroads. Both of you were too stupid to run like rabbits.

Instead, you clowns climbed out of that VW, and stood mocking me, grubby hands on hips. Neither of you had a clue and strode toward me like swaggering ass-holes. You were, I could see, not a prisoner of this bitch. You were not the dude to rock my world.

The minute you stepped inside my magic circle, the black asphalt split open and only for a moment did your skank look at me with anything other than scorn. But then, plain, old-fashioned horror distorted your faces, eyes melting, mouths ripping, skin curling, as you slithered into the earth. Sorry about that. You: Man gone to hell with Amazon bride. Me: Woman still looking.


from The Chronicle Personals: 

SPOTTED & SOUGHT / Wednesday January 13

You: Man. Cute redhead spotted jogging north in sweats at dusk on Monday in front of Curly’s Bar and Grill. You waved and said, “How you doing?”

Me: Woman. Climbing out of my mom’s Olds Cutlass, four brand new tires.


copyright January 2010 by Gay Degani

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