Liltless

“Pester-Wing?”1

She called me from her fancy banana throne, its pizza headpiece glowing in the sheen of the sun drenching us from the bay window. Wallowing in its warmth, I lay on the floor, unmoving.2

“Pester-Wing, come here, you. Come turn water into wine.”3

I sat up. I wished she’d stop calling me Pester-Wing. Bingo.4

When she’d finally found a glass and some murky, water-like substance, I stood up.5

“Place it on the armchair throne,” I instructed. “Now dance, woman. Dance like mad, while I perform the act.”6

Her lace-like body swirled through the suddenly vibrant air as she twisted into shapes I only saw during fornication. The glass beads hanging from her hair flew surrogate from her head, then draping down: signals of her movement. She sliced around me, never touching, but coming ever so close, so close that I could hardly concentrate on what it was- what was it? Could I remember my task, so bitterly in front of me, preventing me from making incredible love to this woman, this woman that needed it nearly as badly as I do? What is this that vests itself inside me that needs finishing, more important than even my lust? 7

Now she rubs herself against my back, her bosom breathing a life of its own, one that calls me louder than Jesus Christ’s little trick, the one that…8

“Oh god,” I say.9

“What,” she answers.10

The water in the cup is red.11