Tag Archives: kisses

She Hates Numbers

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Filed under women

love kills, a short-short story, (originally published in crossconnect)

illustration love kills tattoo

(originally published in CrossConnect)

Love Kills
They killed me, those boys. Every day, getting off the bus, they killed me. I’d be walking away from the stop already, trying not to look, hearing them draw together and trail at my heels like a pack of wolves. I’ve wasted too much time since then trying to figure out why I feel dead inside.

They don’t know what they did to me, but I’m not God, I can’t forgive them. One of them was the first boy I ever kissed. That was spin-the-bottle, behind the holly bushes at the end of the canal. The trashy, sandy space between the seawall and the bowling alley parking lot, where the branches of the mangroves trailed down into the murky water like the sad arms of ghosts. He kissed me there. His lips were wet, trembling, soft as a child’s, and softer than mine.

Why’d he kiss me, then? That’s what I’ve asked a thousand times. Girls, did you ever kiss a man you were ashamed of? One you wouldn’t be caught dead with in other circumstances? The answer is yes. We all did. But, following our mistake, did we then gather up our friends and acquaintances and confront the unfortunate man daily, taunt him with his ugliness every single day for a year? Did we, in a gang of six or ten, pant and bark at him as wild dogs, throwing flecks of spittle onto the back of his fleeing, burning neck?

On better days he wasn’t cruel, but fast and solid, when I bounced against him in a crowded game of flashlight tag. His immovable, sweaty arms encircled me one late spring twilight, and though I wriggled and strained to get away, I wondered what it was like; making love with a boy, how it would feel, our naked bodies pressed together, his aroused skin slipping into my aroused skin, male into female like a dull knife into butter.

There were also the black boys at the back of the room. They wore their clothes differently, as if the cloth covering them wasn’t important, wasn’t doing them any favors. The way their dark skin bled out of the shirt-cuffs like hot ink made me crazy. It was as if women were already part of them, not something foreign. One boy touched my ass, not sly or shy, just placing his open palm against my turned hip like it was a loaf of bread. He never looked my way without smiling.

Once, I was almost raped. I made a mistake and went to this older guy’s apartment, as clean and tidy as a church. That one climbed atop me again and again, rumpling his black-sheeted bed and it seemed like hours went by, my legs twin automatic pistons, pushing his nude weight off and away. He didn’t become violent, so finally he quit trying. But later, I let him teach me how to kiss. To leave off a man’s mouth slowly, gently, instead of rising away like a slap interrupted.

Seems like they all have a thing for plain, big-titted blondes, doesn’t it? The sweetest one I ever had, a model, brought me a warm washcloth, after. His whole body was as hard and smooth and glossy as a horse’s. He held my knees up and washed me like I was a baby, but I never saw him again. The flesh may mesh, but boys perfect like that don’t ever forget why you went with them in the first place. And, girls, truly — are there any other kind but the kind that kill?

I love the idea of a man, regardless.


Filed under short stories

the boy i never kissed, a poem

the boy i never kissed italian renaissance painting

The Boy I Never Kissed

(originally published in Images Inscript)

Michael’s hands are callused, rough and hard;
their worshiping touch is tender as a mother’s.
His voice is quiet, alto, his eyes dewy, downcast

in shy admiration. A forelock of wavy brown
Italian hair cascades over his high forehead
like a Renaissance crown, but his way of approach

is simply too respectful, too frightening.
I know nothing will come of this attraction,
though we sit talking for endless hours

in his old silver Barracuda after midnight,
the smothering summer darkness pressing
against my skin, raising beads of sweat

which I do not brush away, but allow to roll
slowly down between my breasts, turning my nerves
into taut straining wires. My skin is made of glass,

it will crack any second. He tells me sadly
of his foolish sister, Cherie, how she allows
boys she does not love to touch her. He has tried

to protect her, like the mythical big brother
I always craved. Under the golden streetlights,
in his greasy fry-cook’s uniform, his skin turns dusky,

going beyond olive into the baroque region
of infinite mystery. Then he was too good for me;
too noble to kiss. I made him love me from afar,

pushing the moment past, distancing my heart
from damage, keeping forever safe the memory
of such fragile, old-fashioned courtliness.

Where is the man now? Does he remember me, too,
as something far greater than any realized pleasure;
as a delicate, indelible dream of lost love?


Filed under poetry