After I told my friends to wait by the car, I spread me knees on the grass, dunked my finger up my snatch and smeared the glisten across your chiseled name as if the tombstone's letters were the lines etched on your lips. I had to be discreet. Although my friends were back down the hill, their two year-old was running all over creation. Quite literally. After I disguised my fingering as a quick adjustment of my non-existent panties, I kneeled over your granite hard-on and felt each letter, H-A-N-K, hoping you could smell my moist stink through the weight of the soil. From your vantage point, I imagined you could see right up my polka-dotted dress, grateful for the view, but pissed you couldn't do anything about it. If you had reached up through the ground and grabbed me by my thighs, I would have succumbed, kicking your chest and screaming your name. I'd have hugged my breasts to your barreled chest in that cramped space you now call home, where there isn't enough room to withdraw your cock and come on my tits, so you come inside of me again, fucking me drunk like a percussion instrument until I begin to bleed a bit onto the white satin lining that surrounds us. We drift into sleep inhaling the musk of semen, dirt, sand and clay.
After I visited you at Green Hills, I gathered some groceries back in Burbank. No matter how hard you'd gotten over the years, your cock couldn't plunge through the six feet of California hillside to nail me. Rather, you rewarded my advances with a bottle of Jack Daniel's that the bored and indifferent cashier failed to ring up. I sang to you on the walk home, clutching your wink and nod under my arm, the smirk of a damp pussy springing my step.
Between the dog bites and ham sandwiches, we've been walking with the gods. We’re not hand in hand per se, but your gnarled fingers beckon me to open my mouth for you again, and I scamper towards you, my lips wet with drool. I'm the whore you always fall in love with. I'm a groupie, frantic and desperate as the others. But I'm also the woman who can give her paintings to you, not just take them from you. I'll call you a son of a bitch and you'll call me a slut and we'll tell each other how good we feel as we eat the chicken and the shrimp and the french fries and the buns and the mashed potatoes and the gravy and the cole slaw too.
My brooding snaggletoothed loners and flat-broke factotum are to your monstrous red heads and godforsaken butterblondes, all of us daring to shake out our passions before we die. We find each other when we've found honesty in madness. We guise our overwhelming empathy towards humans as remarkable disdain, humping our way through it until we pass out from laughter. We're all too good a lay to fall away from life's grip, to let the dogs eat us just yet, so we keep finding one another and tearing into each other's hearts until we pass out once again.
Under dry sun and 103 degrees, I wore my huge ear rings for you and tickled your blades of grass. You're buried on an impossible slope, too steep for a casket to stay still. An empty beer can and wilted flowers had already made it there that day, but I still added my booze to the slick of cunt juice that had made it to you many times before me, the thin film of my lip's oil left to dry on the aluminum can. I don't mind sleeping on the same bed as the other women, but maybe just change the sheets. Oh… fuck me, fuck me, fuck me I’d scream. I want to make the next-door corpses pulse! You’d cover my mouth and grin.
Over the years, I’ve become somewhat of a minimalist, keeping only essentials like stiletto heels and see-through robes with marabou cuffs. I’ve even let go of my sentimental clutch on books, figuring in this day and age you can find just about anything online if you want it back. But the pulp of your book’s pages has breathed with me through puddles of cum, so I keep them. Getting rid of them would be like getting rid of an old sex toy or love letter. Even if you don’t need it, it still gives you a buzz to hold.
I'd ask if you'd like to come back to the surface with me, but you wouldn't like it here now anyhow, not that you ever did. They're even shutting down the post office in my hometown, one of many in the country. Perhaps good riddance, eh? But still, it's not the same to open an email as it is to tear into a letter, telling you you've been accepted, or that you just owe more goddamn money.
My friend's best friend is the coroner at your cemetery. I'll have him install two pipelines to your hollow, one for beer, one for whiskey. "A dead man is your muse?” he asked. I laughed. I suppose so, but at least he's not a liar. The sun was lowering while your dick finally deflated, and my crotch sealed over. I hear there's not much nightlife here in this town, but we can toast to one another, drinking each other's formaldehyde cocktail and most importantly, not trying.