tis a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive
So, what of the distasteful vast wasteland of flesh and mind and 22 years of aimless gender erosion; many other subjects have been laid to rest upon a sedated lap…I say, we waylay some more!
Yet, I think I will approach this topic with a little bit more decorum!
When I had finally allowed my last lover but I really hate-her girlfriend into my attic paradise, I had felt ashamed. Nowhere to sit, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, fouled briefs stuck in one corner, Mum’s leftover cake from some get together lay abandoned in another and Beckett Couvillion the third, panting on the daybed.
The down comforter that had once been white, sat tan and crumpled and stiff upon my broken bed of disposed dreams. The whole room looked nothing like an artist wanting to be discovered. It looked like Pig Pen had taken a dump and forgot to wipe!
Somewhere along the line, between a Facebook message stating with:
I want to pin you up against the wall in the bedroom upstairs. Hold your hands behind you so you can’t move.
Press myself against you and slowly, very slowly lick your neck. Down to your breasts…circle your nipples with my tongue.
When I hear you moan…I’ll ask you if I can fuck you, long and hard…
By now I know you’re wet…by now your breathing gets heavy…
Only when you tell me to put my fingers in you will I fuck you the only way you like it…
Kate’s only typical responses was, ‘when and where!?’
My next game of fetch the married woman and, my text following above mentioned message:
“Right now! My parents are both teaching and I have the house to myself. And, I’m lonely!”
OH, really, Ambien, just how lonely are you? Is what most would ask. There had been no return question from Kate. She was busy heading to the house.
It was difficult to get Kate into the attic; it is a warped representation of the true Ambien Grace. I had splayed myself out there…Vulnerable! Open to no opinions and awaiting no feedback.
Sex had always been long, soft and with hard rough and lurid intervals between the elder and I. I loved the way Kate fucked me. I still do.
So, in a round ‘bout way this brings me to my point.
What spoiled the wicked way she would ask me for more? Hinting that she loved for me to whisper the words, harder, longer, don’t stop, OH, GOD!
Well, God got shut off. The construction workers who happen to always be around doing nothing were peering through every nook and cranny they could find.
Moment shot down. Wetness quickly absorbed. And, only one thought ran through my vacant fake blonde head:
Fuck, what if Mother Theresa finds out?
Kate left quickly. Almost as quickly as I had come! Pissed that my thoughts of mother had interfered once again.
Incest and inappropriate had been the last words I had heard Kate mutter as she slammed her truck door.
I sat and still sit wondering about the incest, mother, improper, Ambien Grace, Beckett Couvillion and the dysfunction that upholds the white house on Auburn Street.
Is my attachment to Mum so perverse that it is perhaps sexual without the actual gestures? Do I dare think those thoughts?
What of the wardrobe she selects, buys and insists I wear? How I do my hair? Forbidding me to wear my glasses? Begging me to lose weight if only for her?
I do it. I am happy to please. So, yes, I like to turn my mother on. She seems to get a unique pleasure out of the whole control Ambien State of mind. And, Father Floyd has never passed judgment!
Is there indeed incest…without the need for sex but the need for pleasuring?
The thought is a loose connection it holds me and my love for Mum together like a wonderfully decadent homemade chocolate chip cookie, the kind of cookie Mother Theresa makes for me to bring me pleasure!
Hmmm…
