He thought they were soul mates, until the day she lifted her head from the toilet to answer his hesitant, hopeful question: “I hope not.”
Rolling in the long grass, sipping sweet spirits, holding hands in the sun, kissing in the humid downpour. But that was last summer.
She showers for the seventh time that morning. She can’t seem to wash away the filth, the blood, the semen.
As our lips joined, I touched the tip of his tongue with mine. He panicked and hurried back to his car. I jingled his car keys in the air.
He played his hand early. Sliding his slender fingers up her skirt as she purred. It was only then that he realized she was actually a he.
I confess: I did it with Miss Scarlett in the Conservatory with a rope. Twice.