The woman smokes at the window. He stands on the guillotine with all the eyes of France upon him. He’s decided to meet his fate bravely.
She put on a plain white dress in front of the guards. She was now a widow in France. Her hair was shorn, her hands were tied. A priest sat beside her; she ignored him for the one hour ride. She had nothing to confess, nothing left to say.
The wine keeper’s wife knits no longer. La môme is yet to come. She had nothing left to say.
Non, rien de rien.
They say that she is a whore from the eastern seas because she knows every man underneath her lash. It’s been said that she has had them all finish onto her left hand.
Only Catholic Queens and the Princess of Monaco can wear white in the presence of the Pope. Le privilège du blanc. The Pope is hardly ever left-handed.
Lefty is a lover. Lefty feels foreign. Lefty is a virgin. It feels like a tarantula that crawls its way into a hairy lap and makes love to the engorged loins. The brain knows it’s attached but it still feels like it’s discovering new land.
This is about the boy who only ate rice cakes. He told me to excuse the sea of rice cakes in his living room; they’re simply all he eats. He drinks his coffee black. He pulls at his ears when he’s stressed. The left one has tiny missing pieces around its top edge; it gives it a bumpy texture. His mother jokes that it’s from the bowl cut haircuts she used to give him and his brother in the tub.
He’s a maniac with the most beautiful smile. He asked me on a dancefloor on New Year’s eve if he felt different underneath my hands. “You know; mushy. Mushier than last time?” His brown eyes watched me intently to make sure I couldn’t lie.
He cooked me tofu the morning after New Years. He insisted on making it. It tasted odd but I was thankful for the refried beans and corn. I held him afterwards when the food settled in his stomach and the monsters took over his brain.
His red rimmed eyes lost their brown on a drunken night of frost. I walked him home and kept him from face planting several times on the ice. He crossed his arms in his hallway and told me quite pathetically in a tone of determination that he’d never be cured.
He leans up against the door that separates the train cars from each other. Dressed in a crow black suit with a sharp nose and a receding hairline like Dracula’s. White shirt, red tie. A hunk of other ages. Fifties have washed over and wrinkled his face and whitened his hair. He still stands with the same masculinity he had in his youthful years of jockhood. A well positioned bulge fills his trousers. Hairy hands that have hairs that look like they might’ve been shaved. Maybe he finds his hands too hairy and trims the hairs. They’d feel comforting around this boy’s waist, like most young gay boys without fathers tend to desire. Wedding ring on his finger reminds me of a tiny woman with a small back to her waist. A giggly mousy little thing that he married, regretfully, straight out of college. Hopefully she’s grown fat and he’s fallen out of love. It doesn’t really matter but I guess It’s easier that way to get him to want to experiment. Leaves those thin lips vacant for kissing. Blue and green eyes that watch this boy undress with just the flashing television as light. Strong thighs underneath the crow black suit even though his core has weakened and become flabby. It goes away when he stands up though. The arms are stimulated regularly to keep this boy feeling safe inside them. Stamina to keep this boy satisfied. He can be this boy’s daddy, but as can you see, it’s all just a fantasy that I wrote to pass the time.