Honey Butter by Aizlyn B




Prose


 


I like the guys who say, “You must be one of those girls who like honey and butter.” I am afraid of bees. And cows. I don’t know maybe if I do like those guys.

They try to buy me drinks at the bars, but I don’t drink drinks at the bars. I say no. And that’s when they talk of honey and butter.

I am at the bars to carouse and peruse and schmooze and abuse those guys. “Oh, honey butter, you’re so lovely. So loverly.” I say “sure, you can buy me a drink.” They buy me drinks, but I don’t drink them. They say “butter honey.” I say “diet soda.” “You’re not on a diet are you? Cause you so fine.” I don’t drink drinks. I don’t like to lose control. I am an alcoholic.

I blow up like a balloon when I get stung. Hives and such. Such irony that bees live in hives. I lose my stomach when I drink milk. Such irony that cows have a couple of stomachs.

Such irony that I can’t drink drinks at the bars where the guys go. The guys who I want to meet. Where else can I meet a meathead asshole drunk? Back home. I guess. But that’s me. Daddy’s girl. He’s alcoholic. Asshole. Played football in high school and never got over the rahs from the bleachers. What a sucker.

I hide bottles of vodka so my roommate can’t see them. Oh, but if they looked. No one would say anything about bottles of alprazolam, or xanax, if you’re into that sort of thing. But self-medication is fine for me. For the hives, I tell myself. For stomach issues. Nerves.

Bars.

No bars. Not at bars.

Only go to bars.

Bras.

No bras at bars.

That’s what they like to see. Or not see. See tits. See tits bounce. You so fine. Damn right I am fine. Cleavage all up in your face. Nipples touching your chin. You sit at the bar. I stand at the bar. I get up in your face. And it all just lines up that way.

Brahs.

“Hey, brah. You see that girl there, she ain’t got on no bra. You see that honey butter?”

I hear that. I heard that. I say nothing. Never. It’s not a double negative if there are two periods. Never miss a period. Always use a condom.

But I’m allergic to latex. And that other kind they make out of cow stomachs that’re supposed to be allergen-free. WTF.

I make the guys from the bars who I’ve amused take xanax to take the edge off the booze. Then they don’t get hard. Suckers.

Them suck my teats. Not tits. Teats.

If they were hard, they would have to go for it. Like a meathead. They go for it anyway, but it always turns around or inward perhaps when I make them try to put on a blue nitrile glove on their meat heads. Which fingerhole am I supposed to fit? All of them. I amuse myself.

Why aren’t people allergic to nitrile gloves? Because they’re blue? I try to drink blue drinks, but that doesn’t make me not lose control. Double negative.

Oh, if my roommate saw my closet. No blue drinks there. I also like whiskey. And water. But together. Give me a plastic water bottle and I’ll dump that Ache Two OHH on your head and throw the bottle at you. And you better recycle that shit.

This invariably happens at bars. Some young guy will say oh you don’t drink let me buy you a bottle of water. Invariably I unintentionally can’t stop myself and pour out that bitch like a 40 oz on the curb for a dead homey. He is never amused. I think it is the same guy over and over and over a-fucking-gain.

Are all guys at bars the same guy? Are they all my dad? He called me Honey. Sweat pea. Honey bear. Never Honey Butter. What the fuck is that?

How to make Honey Butter by Alton Brown: http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/alton-brown/honey-butter-recipe.html

 

Aizlyn B¬†hails from Gainesville, FL but currently lives in New York.¬† She is a PhD candidate in Economics at NYU. She’s into statistics, probability, causality and cooking. She is an impossible date unless you are a beekeeper wearing a beekeeper’s suit. Probabilities of further advancement skyrocket faster than a normal yield curve.