DeepAsleep
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jul 17, 2004
- Posts
- 774
2 - upon finding out that you once fucked a dog
It brings to mind the developmentally disabled girl,
glassy eyed and eight months pregnant,
who once hung out in my living room like a piece of art
nobody wanted, or cared enough to throw out.
Or the time, naked and sweating, a woman and I
shared a bottle of whiskey and ourselves on a coffee table
as thirty people chanted, "Go! Go! Go!" and we raced
the level of the bottle, to see which of us could forget this, first.
And the highschool myth of a girl,
or a boy. The jar of peanut butter.
The specific gravity of lonely.
I mean to say, I was not immediately disgusted,
but it's the first time in our long acquaintance
where I crossed the line from vague unease to actual pity.
I imagine the sweaty palms clenching into fists
surrounding you, I try to imagine how many doses
it takes to stifle the stomach, what assload of drugs
you must have been on, how terrible the need to please,
or the strange momentum an audience creates;
I try, against all natural inclination, to put your shoes on.
When you said, much earlier in the conversation,
that you'd had a great dog, and when she suddenly died,
you were sad, I realized exactly why.
At four years old, I had a cat that loved me very much.
My mother caught me spinning
around in a circle, both her paws clutched in my fists,
giggling, playing ring-around-the-rosy with kitty.
And, "That noise means pain," and "Kitty is hurt,"
and then, "Kitty got hit by a car," and what I am saying is,
I get it. I never got to properly apologize, either, and I've never believed
being young was much of an excuse.
It brings to mind the developmentally disabled girl,
glassy eyed and eight months pregnant,
who once hung out in my living room like a piece of art
nobody wanted, or cared enough to throw out.
Or the time, naked and sweating, a woman and I
shared a bottle of whiskey and ourselves on a coffee table
as thirty people chanted, "Go! Go! Go!" and we raced
the level of the bottle, to see which of us could forget this, first.
And the highschool myth of a girl,
or a boy. The jar of peanut butter.
The specific gravity of lonely.
I mean to say, I was not immediately disgusted,
but it's the first time in our long acquaintance
where I crossed the line from vague unease to actual pity.
I imagine the sweaty palms clenching into fists
surrounding you, I try to imagine how many doses
it takes to stifle the stomach, what assload of drugs
you must have been on, how terrible the need to please,
or the strange momentum an audience creates;
I try, against all natural inclination, to put your shoes on.
When you said, much earlier in the conversation,
that you'd had a great dog, and when she suddenly died,
you were sad, I realized exactly why.
At four years old, I had a cat that loved me very much.
My mother caught me spinning
around in a circle, both her paws clutched in my fists,
giggling, playing ring-around-the-rosy with kitty.
And, "That noise means pain," and "Kitty is hurt,"
and then, "Kitty got hit by a car," and what I am saying is,
I get it. I never got to properly apologize, either, and I've never believed
being young was much of an excuse.