Napoleon Loved My Knickers
I saw a woman hit a cow the other day.
I could tell that if that cow had been a woman,
She would have burned her bra and smoked fags and drank obsessively and cursed like someone who doesn’t believe in the English language.
One minute, the cow was celebrating her liberation and then bam!
Hello Soccer Mom in her Holy Mini Van.
Looking into her big, black eyes I thought about how this cow just tried to invade Russia in the dead of winter.
And I thought about the last time I’d seen eyes like that.
You know you’ve had one too many bottles of Corona when limes stop making your face scrunch up and you’ve successfully gotten through a pack of cloves and you’re making it damn sure that you’ll finish the second by the end of the night.
I was pig tails and sundresses in November.
He was messy hair and intriguingly low pants on parole.
And when he puffed a breath of cigar into my face, I pushed my burning clove into his arm.
At that point, I realized I’d been reading too much English literature… obviously not enough Twain in my Dickens, much to my disappointment. Because when he pushed me against the house and pushed my skirt up to my waist;
I said: “Bloody hell, yes.”
He said: “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
I put my clove in my mouth so my hands could hold onto his hair.
I thought about how funny it would be if anyone saw us, fumbling and cursing and only about five steps from fucking… then I thought about the way his hands were bruising my flesh.
Then my clove went out and my mouth fell open.
He got busy thrusting, I got particularly un-busy.
And my inner thoughts took on a very erotic English accent… but that could have been because I was being screwed up against the house.
In the November rain…
And when we kissed… his tongue was hot against the cool of my lips and we were tangy and sweet and filthy and deliciously carcinogenic.
I was trailing my tongue across his ear but he couldn’t tell because we were all wet, which made the sound of slapping flesh no less appealing.
Some say it’s soothes the soul… I’d beg to differ.
Then he’s shooting his load and I’m hoping he doesn’t leave stains on my dress.
I think he might have groaned something close to my name but then again, did I even mention my name?
I’m lighting another clove.
He’s zipping up his trousers with my panties in his back pocket.
“I thought you were gay.” I say, handing him a beer.
“60/40” He replies. I smirk… he shrugs.
And I say goodbye with an arch of an eyebrow into his black eyes.
Then I’m back to reality and I briefly wonder if any of the last ten seconds ever happened or if my tortured imagination just made it all up.
Then the light turns green and I speed past the cow.
Who says the best place to heal is amongst friends?
