by Donnie Magazino
(10/07/09)
That's how you met the pouty-lipped Blonde, that atomic goddess with the coke-fueled glare and too much lip gloss. Draped in the rapturous haze of east coast excess, The Blonde helped you survive the gawky onrush of adolescence.
And she taught you to ride.
She guided your clumsy strokes inside those Manhattan thighs, urged you to surf the high tide like a champ, like a lover with nothing to lose but his burdensome virginity.
And after easing you inside and smearing your soul with the scent of peroxide she aided you in easing back out, slowly, amicably, rhythmically, without rancor or shame, without shattering your tender teenaged heart of glass.
Then came another blonde:
A wayward Virgin who danced on that goddamned gondola with hips that circled and swayed in waves that invited you in from the cold.
And you cradled her hips, her tits, her ass under the Mediterranean moon, your swelling love-trunk inside her and under her maniacally grinding ass until it was time to grow up.
But first came a few flings with older women:
There was Joni, whose long legs displayed nary a wrinkle from ankle to ass and whose soft soprano went soaring into the pillow with every aching thrust planted insider her.
There was Loretta, whose rose-red love fountain you licked and licked in the kitchen of a filthy Tennessee truck stop until her back arched upwards and her dark crimson crown spilled over her eyes.
There was Nancy in her new boots, moaning and mumbling something stupid while you eased her onto your tumescent little soldier, with her soon-to-be-ex leaving desperate pleas on her answering machine.
And then there was Brenda.
Librarian Brenda. Pretty on the inside, well-meaning Brenda with the smallish-boobs and the tightly tucked ponytail.
She was no siren. No goddess, no star.
She was a cautious and clumsy lover who kissed as if under the glare of a spotlight and cried after sex like a toddler with a skinned knee. But she was Brenda, so you held on anyway.
But she hated having a lover with so cluttered a history. She resented that all of these shag partners from the past hovered so closely, only a double-click away.
So she killed them.
She strangled The Blonde, pushed The Virgin off the gondola. Mowed down Joni, Loretta, and Nancy in a torrent of gunfire.
And she ambled from the scene leaving nary a fingerprint, committing these murders by ushering you away from those bright-shining queens of the airwaves, and into the world of matrimony, fatherhood, family, domesticity.
A real life. A real love. The real world.
Can you ever forgive her?
