Me in a blue white red swirly wrapper. Sitting against the far wall.
Watching Rocky Horror Picture Show flash across the looped white sheets
dangling from the ceiling.
Tim Curry made me smile. Then I cried. Tears down my face like snot. Like a
bloody nose. I couldn't stop it. Could barely feel it.
You told me to listen to the music.
Then the phat bass dropped.
On to me.
In to me.
It broke into my skin like your fingers inside me. Fleshy rods digging out
my base: core.
Those fingers around my neck. Telling me to relax as you pushed your
purple-blue sticks in front of my face down my shoulders over my breasts
nipples stiff like fingertips.
Lapping at me keeping your jaw loose. I was your sweet red cherry sucker,
you said. An edible plastic comfort melting over your skin down your throat
in a sticky slide.
You were too greedy. Your tongue pressed (hard) up against me sucking at my
juice. Moving me into you. I was dissolving completely in your mouth the way
part of you dissolves into me behind that tall speaker bathroom stall door
shower curtain. Becoming smaller and smaller. Distorted. Leaving my thick
syrupy coating over your teeth lips. Consumed.
Quick before you pop another. Moving to satisfy.
I couldn't stop and my tongue tingled and felt numb.
Raw and sore. Swelling in my mouth where you pushed in further. Harder.
Shoving against what remained: a pink-stained soggy stick licked clean.
Small flakes of me (red triangle shavings) clung to the corners of your
mouth the tip of your turned-up nose.
Before you swallowed they fell on to the hammock of your lap sticking to the
shiny microfiber creases.
You unwrapped another.
Sarah Glen is one of our favourite contributers, but we still like you all the same.