Sunday, May 15, 2011

Blonde Baby, Blone

And this is one other vinyette I found from summer '09:

I sit in the shade of a big oak and listen to the birds chirping. I listen to the sound of my heart, pounding loud against my chest like police at a druggie's door.

She's been nothing but an addiction. Smooth golden hair. Small pert mouth. Baby blue hues. I can smell her scent, a mix of cinnamon and strawberries, even though she's been gone for three hours.


Our first fight.

She's been seeing other people. Last night I found half a dozen used condoms floating in her pool, and a girl with a pearl necklace lying, passed out on the diving board. Her hand squeezing an empty beer bottle for life support.

Beth said it was a small get together with close friends. She had nothing to do with the copious amounts of sex.

I was a fool to believe her.

Black, white and gray fuzz played across the TV. That monochromatic, static noise. I walked over to the TV and rewound the VCR. She was old school. Love old tapes, vinyls and books. Always said she preferred the old way of doing things to this technological perversion. This new age vision.

Click. The tape was ready. I pressed play.

Creampies and rim-jobs. Bukkake and irrumatio. Beth was a star. A filthy blow-up doll in a porn flick.

You can't ask a girl like that stop. Beg for the sake of your sanity. Your relationship. She's a hound. She can smell the sex oozing out of people. She feeds on it.

Now she's gone. Gone like a fallen ice cycle. Shattered. Gone. And I sit alone under the heavy branches of an oak tree.

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