Mommy
Dear Mother,
The marks of ink I'm writing inside this card resemble, to me - or perhaps represent - the feeling of shivers down my spine when I hear the word "mom." The words now scratching across paper, tearing new thoughts into the realm of our consciousness, but I'm not writing anything we don't both already know. This holiday is like Monday morning for me, when you wake up and think - I have time to sleep in! But it's just a dream, a happy one, until you wake up and realize the mistake you made. There's no going back to Sunday.
I wish it could be reparable. I almost called you today, instead of writing this mistake of a letter, which I know you will - if not already - tear to shreds, just like you did with me and every decision I ever made. But sometimes, people can't be forgiven. Maybe that's all you are to me - a person.
I recently read "Acid for the Children", a memoir by one of the members of the band "The Red Hot Chili Peppers." In it, this band member says when he would see his mother as an adult, backstage - he's done it! He's famous, sweating and happy! Accomplished! - they would shake hands, nothing less, nothing more. I think of you, how we exchange pleasantries four times a year at most, and I think of how at least shaking hands is touching someone, having that respect for someone.
I look at all the girls posting pictures of their mothers today to social media, and I throw up in my mouth. I know - just from those stupid, useless posts - that it is bitterness, like the back wash of vomit, that resides as our reality in my mouth, gross and uncomfortable, and I know that because one time I made myself throw up and you made fun of me for it.
The word "mother" fails here, where my scraggly words across this page don't add up, don't amount to actual feeling, respect.
I could go on, but I'm tired. For once, let's make this about me, and not you, your residue, your laugh when I needed a hug.
Sincerely yours,
A
A Thousand Moments of Weakness
The wrongness of it made it hotter. The first time could've been written off as a moment of drunken weakness. The second time as an Ambien-induced accident. But this affair had been going on for months now and I had given up on justifying my immoral behavior to myself.
Instead I was embracing the forbidden, basically daring fate, or God himself to strike me down. Tonight I felt disgust at my husband, passed out cold in our bed, ripe with the stench of old sweat and sour whiskey. I no longer felt guilt about having an affair with the grown son of my husband's best friend. I felt only need.
When he arrived I greeted him with arms around his neck and welcoming his probing tongue into my mouth. My hands are running over the smooth skin of his chest and shoulders, waking that needy thing in me.
I am moaning as his curious hands explore beneath my dress. Fingers find me wet, eager.... sliding easily inside. He lifts me and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me into my own house. Past the kids' rooms, into the spare, it doesn't even have a lock.
My dress is tossed to the ground as I tumble to the bed. He yanks his shorts down and I cum almost immediately as he rams himself inside, one forceful thrust that opened me wide and made me cry out alarmingly loud.
My mouth on his neck as he's moving inside me. I'm screaming inside, my body has ached for this, I am on fire with his touch.
Harder and faster he slams into me. My cries are muffled against his neck, but no masking the sound of the bed as it bangs against the wall, keeping rhythym with his thrusts.
No matter. Nothing matters.
•••••
There is only he and I, and this feeling, and this moment.
•••••
Forever, frozen memory.
•••••
On the prowl
Like an ocean of heat, the flames crash inside as a rough tide seeking sustenance.
One body craving another, a hunger hardly separated from the ravishment it seeks.
The sudden warmth of a misinterpretation, tis not love but more passionate and aggressive.
Spontaneous.
Rushing.
Irrational.
Something must be had, the anticipation is too much to bare.
Suddenly both are one and a storm of urges rages on until the attentions of another are caught within this sultry need, and the process starts again.
