My WOMAN is like The EARTH

NOTE PLEASE: Contains some Tastefully Revolting Smut1

My woman is like the earth, red brown skin and dark hair grown to her hips. We live together in the heat and dust and dry brush of the desert, on a tiny ranch with goats, some chickens, a horse. Her father abused her and she found me, seventeen and beautiful and happy to fuck me and clean my trailer, inherited from my father, inherited from his. It is a silver bullet; a beached submarine shining in the sun and tin walls protects my woman and me. We were a family. The baby lived three months but was too frail and ill. Her body mourned for the weak child and could bear no more loss, bear no more sons. She was in grief for two years, but still beautiful, wonderful to me.2

In the morning there is coffee and the smell of her maple skin and she gets back in our bed and holds me. My eyelids closed I feel the heat of the peaking sun beginning to boil our tiny house of metal and brown skinned humans. Perfect eggs still warm from the hens broken and they splash, sizzle and spit in cast iron. Tortillas my woman buys from the border grocery, turning brown on the grill. Our days are long and comfortable and run into one another. Our lives entwined and timeless and sweet.3

Another came to town, a venomous white bitch looking at our acres of dirt for hope, for money. I gave her my number and she brought me to her huge ugly bare adobe house inside of the city to do the landscaping. I work for her a week when she calls me to her bedroom and buries her tongue into my mouth, pulls my hips and grasps with bony hands for clothes, rips me to shreds with her rich, pale body and takes my seed, wants a dark child of mine for her own.4

She still pays me, more and more by the month, her belly grows and she takes my mouth, my hips, tears the hair out and my scalp exposed is wet from the trickle of head blood. She transforms before my eyes and her hands are black claws, her skin white scales and bones growing, shifting beneath her cold body armor. Her belly a terrible cage for my son thrusting against my chest, she wants to swallow me whole but thank god, she is always too full.5

This is what my wet dreams are like for nine months. An animal fanged small and anxious bites me again and again burrows under my meat and ribs until I wake drenched with sweat and sticky and warm between my thighs and my erection won’t die until I jack myself off again or my beautiful woman wakes with me. The white witch knows powerful magic. The curse is strange and I walk nervous and disturbed all day digging in the sorceress’s rocky garden.6

Her milk is dry after the baby is born, she smokes too much. I talk to her and she gives. My woman is the wet nurse, we take the infant to our silver trailer and love him, raise him while the other is plotting revenge and working as a realtor. The boy is perfect and lovely and somehow, strange, the venom did not reach him in his cage of scales and thorny female spite and he has no mark of evil on his perfect little body. It takes long days of my woman holding the screaming child and rocking him back and forth and pressing his stubborn face to her small brown nipple where he bites, receives nothing and cries. My woman is determined, loves him so, and finally the baby suckles and is satisfied, her breasts are swollen and ripe, she is tired and smiling contentedly reclining on our bed of cotton and Mexican blankets. She is so beautiful and I take her there, she opens her legs wide to love me and smiles, and breathes as the baby feeds and I push against them both. No longer did my woman grieve; her sadness melted with the fighting life of this new little man. I had a family once more.7

The snake slithers toward my woman, my child. It is small and yellow, wraps around her ankle, it is growing, pulsing with her warmth and movement and she breathes harder, I match her pace, it is now fatter, thicker, crawling up her belly. Its scales shine golden, her face, no longer peaceful, stiffens and her eyes closed, tight, her nails digging into my back, tiny blood moons sending shivers down my spine. It is enormous now, grown to the size of a python, the baby’s head could easily fit in its mouth, and it tastes, smells his tiny red head with its tongue of black satin before wrapping around her neck and entangling in her dark hair and caressing her brown cheek with its smooth strong jaw. She pulls me into her and the snake bites down on her shoulder, I sink deep into her, she leans into the snake and its fangs and poison sink into her and she opens her eyes wide and moans in fear and ecstasy and the baby cries.8

The little one is placed back on her breast and she stays still and stares hard, eyes wide still, focused on the dirty, bare light bulb in the white ceiling. She is breathing ragged, baby white and tiny squirms and bites, woman takes no notice. Snake now squeezing her body into oblivion and all of a sudden it is gone, just me and my family, quiet and breathing hard with the sounds of the crows on the roof, cackling and scritch scratching on the tin roof above our luminous bodies. Milk and sweat gleam on woman’s smooth belly. I run my hands through her tangled mane. The dairy goats outside bleat, hungry, and I wonder at their bloodcurdling wail, how similar to human voice they sound.9