There are two kinds of girls in this world – Neruda Girls and Bukowski Girls.
Neruda girls want to hear:
For those of you not fluent in Spanish (full disclosure: I am not. I can curse and order food), it translates to, “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”
It’s a good great line, right? Passionate, evocative, poetic and brimming with romantic promise.
Neruda Girls eat this up – warm honey all sticky-sweet on their fingertips.
Then, you’ve got your Bukowski girls who want to hear:
Like all teenage girls in love with the idea of love, I was once a Neruda Girl.
But now, that kind of talk just makes me cut my eyes, cock my head and go, “What’s your game, friend? What do you want?”
It’s not that I don’t believe Neruda’s lines. I’m sure he does want a woman to bloom underneath him. To burst forth all blushing pink and sweet.
I just think that Bukowski – irascible, inebriated bastard that he was – is a lot more honest.
Neruda will love you madly. He’ll grab you by your hips and sweep you up in this overwhelming delirium – all wild kisses tearing at your lips and your heart. All shattered plates and screaming and storming out. All blood and sweat and salt.
And he’ll do it again and again and again. Maybe with you or maybe with someone else.
Bukowski is just sort of fucking amazed by your very presence and the fact that you’re willing to give him everything. The fact that he’s willing if not eager to offer up everything left of him. But this is hardly devoid of passion because your kisses leave your lips raw with love and let’s face it, Bukowski might just die if you ever take your love away.
I’m a Bukowski Girl.
I never craved madness or a love that would make my blood boil.
All I want to do is just be in the same sun-dappled bedroom. To listen to you breathe and be close enough to touch. Because that’s enough. The warmth of your body, our records, our books, our morning coffee, your smile and how you make me laugh. Again and again and again.