A Golden Shower of Teen Perfume and then . . . Christmas, 2007

A Reposting
by Homeless T



24 December 2007. Two Years before Our Unholy Marriage even started. I am alone. The memory of her abrupt disappearance--whisked away by her dad the small-town grifter, and another man, the father of her middle child (she has three kids by three dads)--replays in my mind.

Echoes resonate bittersweet hollowness. I do love her, but the irony that sparked my arrest and no-contact order say otherwise. I broke my pinky pal's . . . pinky.

A Golden Shower (cont'd)

Only the day before, she had shown such sympathy for me, the man facing three court cases. The prosecuting attorney on one case wanted so badly to jail me on contempt for thirty days, I could feel her passion for punishment across the courtroom. She was a totally hot redhead, but she was restrained by the head District Attorney, who actually knew the details of the trumped-up charges.

"I'm worried about you going to jail. What will I do?" she groaned, and we both shuddered at the thought of being separated for so long.

It was only several hours after that expression of love that she became Case Number Four for me--a criminal case for aggravated domestic assault causing bodily damage and mental illness.

Everybody at the sheriff's department knew that she was nutty, but some joker had the gall to try and pin that on me too. Everybody in town and country knew her, a surprising number in the biblical sense, but she reminded me so much of myself, I fell in love.

Tonight, I am alone and broke, stranded in this cheesy motel room because I sold my car just a few days ago to refund her gambling losses, so that she might make her payment and keep her own car. I can learn to live alone again, but this Christmas eve, I am not ready to begin.

So here I sit, half-crazy from the sudden, total separation from a woman I craved. Now I face even more jail time for allegedly fracturing her--how darkly ironic!--for fracturing her pinky finger. We are crooked-pinky pals, you see, two clinodactylic souls zigzagging a path to who knows what hell.

I ask myself, how could I have fallen for a sociopath? Again? My first wife was off-kilter, but she can't compare to this one, for better or for worse. Pinky pal or not, the woman who will become my second wife in 2009 is a mental adolescent--but somehow her honesty redeems everything in my mind, and our time together is not only wildly erotic and gushing with teen perfume--it is fun even in its most prosaic aspects. Very naughty fun. I am 23 years older than her, and for this reason, I have learned to speak in past tenses.

Is there kindness under her glitter makeup? Is she playing with her Barbie dolls now, or jerking off the paper boy? My obsession ceases only momentarily, and then kicks right back in again.

All Praise to the Angel of Enlightenment
I sit in the motel mooning over my Love's misspelled words on Facebook, declaring she is done with me, "sso over pinky pal, over, over him and will never trust him again"!

Suddenly I feel myself starting to drown. Where is kindness when I need it--where is my car and my money, my sanity? Is that poor dog that prompted me to get involved with her freezing on a night like this, alone in that cold garage? The bastards!

I gave her and her mephitic kin everything I had, and now I have been locked alone in a garage too, figuratively speaking. They may be planning to destroy me in the end: I wouldn't be her first dead beau. I've never fallen for a femme fatale before, so excuse me while I learn. Poof and she's gone.

I haven’t seen a glimpse of her since her father whisked her away. I'm getting the hell out of here and walking over to the restaurant for dinner. It's the only place open in this hairball of a town, and that's only because they're Hindu. Happy Holidays to you.

Update of January 1, 2018. Maybe a woman like Joan E Thurman can have helped my beloved  regain her senses. It's still not too late.

Reprinted from Christmas, 2007. Happy Holidays to all of you for 2018.