Author S. K. Nicholas

Smearing jam on her lips, I take her on the back seat of some ol’ Pontiac. When I’m done being unfaithful, we mutilate the faces of those we dislike. California. Yosemite. Sunbathing naked between rivers and mountains I place two fingers inside her mouth and press down on her tongue. She responds by dividing. To lighten the mood, I eat her out until my mouth runs dry. Shifting. Changing. Howling. Removing the bullet-shaped vibrator she carries in her handbag, I place it inside of her while flicking through the pages of an atlas. Geography was never a strength of mine, and as I search in vain for Bolivia, she bites my arm causing me to flinch. Covering her eyes, I whisper into her ear and she instinctively shudders. Headaches. Despair. Black coffee. Somewhere on the streets where we live, a gang of inbreeders stabs up some kid for cheating them out of money. They slash at his throat nearly taking his head off. Reading about it in the morning paper, I make sure to pull back my foreskin and wash away any filth that’s collected beneath. My woman deserves consideration; she demands respect. On the highway, near the water tower, I leave flowers to the memory of all the women I’ve ever loved. Sometimes, I write poetry. You’ll never read it, though, and neither will she. My nameless whore; the one who controls each and every word. My mind is elsewhere. Flooded subways, maybe. Burnt out churches where needles are scattered like leaves. Subdued like the curve of the earth as my mouth rests against her shoulder. English fields where the night is as light as the day. With the moon to keep us company, I take her again even though I’ve nothing left to give. Licking the sweat from my forehead, she holds me when others would’ve let go. I’m not a monster. I’m just a lover who walks the thin line between what disarms and captivates. Cleanse my wounds. Sit with me until I’m at rest. This life is ours. It’s ours and ours alone.