You wake up. Put just a t-shirt on because those jeans eat at your ass and it’s too early for that yet.
You make what your daddy proudly called hillbilly coffee. You sneak a peek and that guy in your bed is moaning in his sleep, pointing his toes.
His junk’s all shriveled and caught up in that black tangle. You think how if that were you you’d be more modest, even in your sleep.
You think," I don’t believe I like this one very much. "
Then you remember putting your mouth on that thing, just for a second the night before, and how grateful he seemed, how his body instantly went from tense and strong to flop-relaxed and jelly,
how that alarmed and disgusted you so you pretended it was just a stop on the way to kissing his lower abdomen.
Now you rub your tongue against the roof of your mouth to equalize the bitter taste, a taste close to the one that time your mama boiled the hot dogs in the pot of delimer your daddy was using,
you only a couple bites in but sick for days.
It was a accident, you tell people. You’d probably say that now should there be the same people in your house staring with you at this man with the thick rope chain around his neck
and the missing molar. It was a accident. I needed a ride. You laugh to yourself, and Lord did you ever need a ride.