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Original Monologues

Currently, we have 376 Original Monologues.
There are 197 Male Monologues.
There are 165 Female Monologues.
There are 14 Male/Female Monologues.

Comedy - F - 30 to 59

Author: Lindsay, Barbara

(VARLA sits on a bar stool with a drink and cigarettes. She continues to drink throughout.)

He's a professorial sort, really. Bit of a belly. Kind eyes. Smart. You know. Not my type. My friend Louisa introduced us. I thought "Whatever for?" But one doesn't like to be rude right away. So I perched for an easy escape and submitted to chat. He's got a stunning vocabulary, actually, which he employs without pomposity, although, of course, the correct use and pronunciation of "aficionado" and "acuity" hardly merits sexual reward. I was literally counting down the minutes before I could gracefully dump him and retreat when I noticed his belt had missed a loop, which for some reason I found rather idiotically sweet. That's a dreadful word to describe a man, isn't it, sweet? Not a man whose clothes you'll be tearing off any time soon. But he was, terribly, terribly sweet. I found myself wanting to cuddle him, hold his hand and walk through the park, lick my fingers and run them through his hair. Can you imagine? I can't. But it was enough to persuade me to go out with him for what I assumed would be an evening of either beat poetry in a coffee house or a chocolate soda and some heavy petting. When he arrived to pick me up the next night, I noticed immediately that his belt had once again missed a loop, a different one this time. Now, this was annoying. Right before my eyes, he turned into some sort of scarecrow person, unkempt and trashy. Anyone who's missed a belt loop twice, you expect him to have dirt under his fingernails and not much on his mind. There was no backing out at this point, but I mean, really. He barely managed to pull off the evening; in fact I wouldn't even look him in the eye until he'd said "sonorous", "epistolary", and "deciduous" and had spoken familiarly of Mombasa. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Anyone who misses a belt loop twice could at the very least not be called vain. And he did seem to have some money. So he asked again, and I agreed, with a reluctance I hoped he would interpret as coy. Isn't that just me all over? Coy? All right, once more, and a dressy affair this time. And I'll be goddamned if he didn't show up at my door having missed, yes, another belt loop. Well, now I knew. Now it was plain. He was doing this on purpose. In a stroke, his whole scheme was revealed, clear as water. The son of a goddamned bitch was gaslighting me. He meant to drive me mad. No grown man misses three belt loops. That kindly smile, the erudite conversation, the tousled hair, all of it masking the black heart of a misogynist. This was too goddamned much. I was not, I repeat, not going to be played with this way. Who the goddamned hell did he think he is? Three belt loops? Not on my watch you don't, you evil, disingenuous, covertly hostile son of a bitch. So I waited. I waited until dinner. And then, right in the middle of the restaurant, right in the middle of the main course, right in the middle of a word, I turned the table over right in the middle of his lap. I've always wanted to do that. All I needed was a reason. And he gave it to me, all right. Three belt loops. My ass.

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