Childhood Romance

Not all romances are the same.

    She came in, Marlboro guns ablaze, menthol seeping out between leathery lips.
   Her touch was disgusting.
   Her sweet nothings, even worse.

   Her robe hung open loosely, showing the pain and triumph of her desperado ways.
   Inhale.
   Exhale.
    Repeat.

    With each step cindered, my anticipation fizzled a little more.
    Inevitability has its way of taking away the fear.

    I wanted to cough, but I knew that it would make her mad.
   She was close now, so very uncomfortably close.

   Burnt minted oil lay whispers upon my face, a new version of bedtime fairy tales, each one unique,
    and all eagerly waiting to become part of my absolute nightmarish fairy-tale dreams.

    The kiss of her lips poisoned against the innocence of my mildly salted flesh.
   Tongue dryly lathered with regret lay waste, slowly slurping, slithering towards pleasures unknown.

    My first love; I wish.
    Perhaps for her that was the answer, firstborn and whatnot.

    Even closer now.
   The smell of her bitter sweat forced into my mouth.
   The wandering fingers lustfully abound.
   The aftertaste of Bourbon rancid, swishing and swirling against the back of my throat.

   Dancing between the aftermath of forced erection, I still rose.
   Deep thrusts, deep grinding, deep groans.
   Deep, deep, deep into my closet of future's past.

   "Until tomorrow, my little man," she recited, lovingly, just like the night before.

   Nobody ever said it was easy being a single mother.
    And, Nobody ever said.