Sylvie Hill

Preface to “BUT I’M LEGION JOE!”

Fucking RIGHTs! Through HOXTON SQUARE CIRCLES: starfucking tales of sexless one-night stands, I was living it up man! Yea, living up the loneliness shielded by hairy bodies, booze and that fabulously shared cigarette over your balcony wall as the morning set in and when you had none left at all, and it was time to go to sleep before the headache set in and the regret of exposing yourself when you hadn’t really shaved your bikini line and the hair set in. Was it alcohol that fuelled my hunger or the bad habit of always being satiated? There was also a boy willing to wander. Never no one said no and always yes to the ‘fake sandwhich’ that was really just a ploy to be civil, knowing there’d be no talking of real things just playing with each other’s bodies. Fine things.
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BUT I’M LEGION JOE

A decade later and I tried it again.
Six Old Milaukees later after a ski full of adrenaline.
Buddy offers to bring over his travelling Kit for martinis.
“I got smokes, and slippers and vodka and a story
Let me come over and we’ll talk about something funny!”
Guy shows up looking like George Clooney.
Handsomest sonofabitch you’ve ever seen—and manly.
We’re talking, I’m laughing and the moves start happening: he’s randy.
But the booze hits my brain, and the smoking seems easy
and my body is nowhere near reacting…

“I’m kinda like Legion Joe,” I say, “just in this for the talking.”
“You’re an odd bird, Hill,” he cries, gathering up his Kit, starts packing.
“Shit, I’m sorry, it’s not you, it’s me and I’m not really into this.”
His face drops to the floor near his slipper and his shoe, and a smirk telling me he’s fucking pissed.
It happened again. Then it happened again. I slipped it on then slipped it in.
5 seconds later I was off, but not turned on
and wanting to talk about the war again.
“Remember, I’m Legion Joe,” I said.
“Go fuck yourself. Get a cab.” He said.
What a friend.

“Remember when you used to be able to hang a wet facecloth off your stiff dick?!”
And we laughed so hard we nearly spilled our gin!
“I do,” I cried! “I was the one wetting,” I said.
Now that guys are older, they got to preserve the stiff.
That’s what I talked about with two guy friends
Sitting at the table, candles, wine and good food in.
Laughed and talked about light and heavy things.
No fucking. No touching. No loving. No messing.
Just some Love vets hanging about talking about the war again.
Why does no one ever just sit around and talk about the war again.
It’s when you do you know that’s when the Peace has set in.

©Sylvie Hill 2013

Photo: George Clooney in a Hitler ‘stasche