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In Praise of Short Men

a comic three-act poetic treatise
-- for Scooter

First, an Introduction.

I know three Marks, all of them strong, dark and handsome; intelligent, kind and charming; full of passion, grace and fire. And they remain dear friends, tall friends, platonic to the core. For to me a spouse around the house must be all that and more: he must be short.

Some of it’s simply housekeeping. When a man and a woman literally see eye to eye, we both agree on the placement of things. How high the shelves should be, how low the lamp, how deep the seats, what constitutes eye-level when hanging an item on the wall. If it’s six a.m. in the morning and the issue is where the shower head is aimed, empathy on such matters ranks right up there with whether the toilet seat should be left up or down.

Second, as a Segue, Some Silly Rhyme.

Short men are often funny and almost always polite, for these two demeanors can swiftly defuse a fight.

They make the best roomates, trivial, but true. Small men are less wear and tear on the linens, too.

Tall men are like stick figures; straight lines with no bow. Short men have a waistline from which curvaceous blessings flow.

For when it comes to most women, the secret is this: inbetween the sheets, short men fit.


	Third, the Terrain, with Comic Asides. He slips into the bed, light as a cat, sliding alongside my body. A tall man would create a cavernous indent, into which I’d roll. I turn to meet him and we lie face to face, our toes entwined, arms outstretched and grasp embraced, like a caduceus caress. With a tall man, it’s more like hugging a tree. Forearms swell from wrist to elbow, and to the shoulder rolling biceps stretch, a coaster of curves. Short men have great legs too. He pulls me toward him, my head nestled against his neck, long hair falling over my face. You know, if he were a few inches taller it would be armpit city. With my hands, I feel his wide shoulders taper into his waist. Tall men are so tubular. I press unto him, my breasts spread gently against his chest. There’s just nothing quite like nip to nip. He lays inside of me, not upon me, compact thighs at gentle incline to mine, his graceful weight no burden. To make love, you must be able to breathe; it’s that simple. Lungs swell with the breath of desire. My fingers slide alongside his ribs, each exhale pours through my hands and into my being. A rhythm ensues. His pelvis chases mine, each grown eager from the moves, one receding in proposition, the other aggressive in pursuit. Rocking in a sway only two equal forces can achieve, we exchange our approaches like fog rising from the sea.