Cuffing Season: A Poem

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We met at the club in the middle of June,
Dancing myself clean when on came a tune,
“Your Love” by The Outfield, it was my jam,
I grabbed my boys emphatically, I said “Come on, fam.”
Spinning an empty bottle of pricey Bud Light,
Strangers came swarming from left and from right.
Girls and guys and creatures unknown,
Moving erratically from all the coke they’d blown.
That’s when she grabbed me and said “let’s groove,”
Seth Rogen, the dice move, my only cool move.
She laughs and touches my big brawny chest,
A few shots later and you know the rest.
11:30 a.m. and we’re finally up,
I ask her, “Coffee? I’ll make a cup.”
She smiles and says that I couldn’t be cuter,
“But no thanks, she’ll just grab an Uber.”
I fall back asleep, a drunken slumber,
Wake up at 1, she’s left me her number.
I save it as “Maggie, Dance Yourself Clean,”
Then head up to my pool, I’m living the dream.

I am drunk at a bar in early July,
Just back from Europe, your boy went to Versailles.
Paris and Nice and all over France,
Just me and my friends in the land of romance.
Culture and cheese and wine was the rage,
And a trend did develop on my Instagram page.
Among the likes from strangers and friends,
I began to notice some eye-raising trends.
Maggie began liking each and every post,
She even was the one who DM’ed me the most.
So back in New York in a seedy dive,
A jukebox, some Buck Hunter, it’s where I do thrive.
Yet I’m lonely and antsy and restless and bored,
So to my contacts I go, where Maggie’s number is stored.
“Hey girl, you out?” I ask in a text,
And friends, I’m sure, that you know the rest.
I meet at her place in Murray Hill,
To schtup my fair maiden via Netflix and Chill.
I ask what she’s up to on Thursday, not so late,
And that’s when we set up our first formal date.

In August we went for a weekend down the Shore,
Her friend’s share house, it was a fucking chore.
From figuring out cabs and split dinner checks,
And dealing with drama when all of us were wrecked.
Hammered at Parker House slamming Spring Lakers,
Maggie and I struggling to be the peacemakers.
While Suzy and Taylor argue away,
Kenny and Kira yell for the tenth time today.
So Mags and I leave and head for the beach,
Whispering sweet nothings amidst our slurred speech.
Kiss her forehead, tuck her hair behind her ear,
Grab her hand and say, “Let’s get out of here.”
Back to the house, the walk takes us a while,
Twenty minutes, in fact, to walk half a mile.
We laugh at the fact that we’re both a mess,
Upstairs we go, begin to undress.
With her bra clasp I do begin to fumble,
That’s when my stomach starts to rumble.
Bathroom is locked so I throw up in the closet,
No way we’re getting back the security deposit.

Now it’s September, there are apples to pick,
Me and Mags still together, beginning to click.
We’ve gone to sushi, she’s met my best mates,
Consistently seeing each other for weeknight dates.
She suggests we go to a pumpkin patch,
Even hints to me that our flannels should match.
A chuckle to myself, I know this ruse,
Her powers of seduction she’s begging to abuse.
I won’t give in, I’ll do my damn best,
I won’t wear flannel, ha! I’ll wear a vest.
But she’s cunning and smart and I like her wit,
To my chagrin, she arrives in a Han Solo ‘fit.
“Fuck, we’re both in vests,” I manage to say,
And she says, “Great! Gonna be a nice day.”
So upstate we go, our outfits are flames,
Throngs of dudes missing college football games.
Boomerang shots of leaves that are thrown,
And for fifty bucks, twenty apples we now do own.
But worth it, yes, ’twas all for the ‘Gram,
And then she asks, “Babe, wanna meet my fam?”

Back to Jersey we go, this time to her folks,
Time to brush off some of my best dad jokes.
We get to her place and, holy shit, is it massive,
I temper my tone, I try and stay passive.
Remembering now her dad does something in stocks,
Guess that’s why Mags can afford extra lox.
Inside we go, I stand up damn straight,
Maggie gives me a tour of her giant estate.
Her parents are cool, they say, “How’s it hangin’?”
They’re nice to the boy their daughter is bangin’.
We head to dinner, it’s fancy as hell,
Maggie’s mom lookin’ good, a MILFy bombshell.
I make a mental note, Mags has good genes,
Start prayin’ to God she believes in vaccines.
Could I really be with an anti-vaxxer?
Maybe I should just come out and ask her.
And what if she wants a six-carat ring?
Wait, hold up, we haven’t even defined this thing.
But back at her place, she says real conclusive,
“Babe, I think it’s time we’re exclusive.”

Halloween time and our costumes are matched,
So much for trying to not get attached.
Planning a trip over Christmas vacation,
Some exotic beach for max relaxation.
Giving more love than can possibly take,
Way past the point of potential heartbreak.
A kiss on New Year’s, a card saying, “Be mine,”
Expensive dinner for my one Valentine.
In March we black out on Saint Paddy’s day.
We have cute pet names, couldn’t be more cliche.
Memorial Day and we’re up on The Cape,
Our future together starts to take shape.
Our sex is routine, we’ve each gained ten pounds,
But I wouldn’t change a thing, this love knows no bounds.
We’ve both said the “L” word, I think she’s the one,
Apartment hunting has become our new form of fun.
Now we’ve moved in, she threw out all my shit,
My signed Brady jersey, she says it won’t fit.
Tried to stay single, that I done muffed,
Because in less than a year your boy got cuffed. .

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Boston Max

Spending my retirement fund at Trader Joe's and trying to remember to check my mailbox semi-regularly

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