I do think about forever—quite often in fact.
I think about it when we make lump, lump that springs from lust that drips off of love. Making lump is like making whoopy pies is like building dolls out of clay, all of the nasty bits mashed together by hands that are too eager for the majority of the making, lump that is.
I remember, vaguely, that we made lump one weekend in Atlanta at the Country Inn and Suites near the airport. Everything lump is so half-assed. We start and stop and go again and get tired, not physically, but just tired, disinterested tired. And not even that really.
I rest my chin on the crown of your head and yipe, “Voy a venir,” in my Speedy Gonzales voice and you laugh and the contractions push me out of you. You huff and sigh and blow the hair off of your face. We change positions and talk about your brother. Vengo.
“I think it was Albert Hammond, right? It Never Rains in Southern California? And it really doesn’t, or at least, not a lot. Maybe one month out of any given year.”
I roll the thought around, pushing it to the corner of my cheek with the muscle in my tongue. It’s drenched in saliva by the time it resurfaces.
“I think so.”
When I’m thinking about forever, I try not to think too far ahead, I really do. I’ll start off with things like our life in Moscow—Idaho, that is; in a small house that can’t retain heat. And dogs. Two of them. One mine, one yours. And should one dog wander out into the snow and never return because of the wolves, I’ll divert and think about our lives in Idaho. I don’t know that I could survive that, the death of a dog. Then I leave Moscow, even though I have more of a connection, and you stay. Then I come back.
“What if it dies of old age,” you ask.
I make note. Dealbreakers: referring to animals with the pronoun it.
“That would be okay. Dogs do that, don’t they? Wander off to die.”
You say, “Whales do.”
Then I return. And go a little further.
I move past the life in Moscow, even though the snow really does look like sand when the sun ignites it. I go backward. Into the grey and out of the pink onto the beach, the real beach, where we all say sesual and all the girls look like an effortless version of Rihanna.
I come back for Andre 3000.
You are talking about…Puritanical encounters, about the god-fearing gym attendants at your gym. About the small of your back being exposed while bent over the stationary bike, climbing, and holding, still holding. About how one of the gym staff, a woman your age, walks behind you and hikes up your spandex to conceal the quarter inch space of sweat-soaked epidermis. About her voice when she says,
“He can see you,” and scowls.
You begin to seethe and become emotional. I mouth the words of 3000, dramatically contorting my face so it appears that I am the one singing the words.
If models are made for modelin’ thick girls are made for cuddlin’.
You come back, laugh a little, and ask me about the difference between Majin Buu and cotton candy.
I tell you, “There isn’t much of a difference for the way he is saying it.”
Now knock knock knock on wood.
You ask, “Is it all just pink matter?”
I think so, I think.
“I’m not sure,” I say.
The sunlight falls over my bed sheets in pale fractured rectangles, stretching over patches of your skin and mine. My dog is on the floor next to us. I tell you about a list of names that I have for him:
Little Kitchen sink
Taco meat puppy
My Milky Sue
Filly Filly Fiskers
“How would you spell that?” you ask.
I revise. Philly Philly Fiskers.
I yell, “Coocoo hound,” and he jumps to his feet.
And your back on Puritanical Encounters, back on things that lead me to think that you think everything in life would be completely worth it and okay if you could just step back in time and be the most popular girl in high school for one day.
I sneak off, just for a minute or two, just to be a part of the love making.
And it’s summer and you are this girl on an island and I’m the boy from America. I can hear your voice far off like thunder and low pressure winds gathering offshore.
…fat thighs…youth group bitch something…hate my thighs…backstabbing slut…babysitter virgin…friend’s dad…boating accident…stole my ex-boyfriend…fingered..sadie hawkins…same purse this mom killed herself that,
“..so I guess I can’t really blame her for being such a bitch.”
But I don’t respond, because I can’t. I’m on the island, with my golden girl, the one the sun is kind to, the one made of twenty-four karat gold. Yeah, I guess.
My fingers glide across your stomach and placate you for a moment, and then we’re both on the island.
“Do you like my thighs?” you ask.
And then I’m kicking you off the island, hoping you can swim good, banning you from the beaches like a gray cloud so I can stick my pale bottom to the sky and peek out at the island girl, no longer you, perfect thighs, perfect because she doesn’t ask me about them.
Nod. Shake my head. Placate. Repeat. Compose.
I do think about forever—quite often, in fact. I think the real trouble is thinking about it while it’s happening, forever that is. There’s too much to think and do all at once. At least, this is how I feel. You are the only sultry man I know.
Thinking? Swimming. Drowning, slowly.
And I’m back, back to mechanical lump.
“…and it’s not that I don’t like her, I just want her to fail. Is that so wrong?”
I tell you that it’s okay to want her to fail, as long as you will it publicly and then, “I’m sorry, who are we talking about?”
Your ex best friend, Freudian manifestation of your teenage mother, right?
“Samantha,” you say. Your brow furrows.
I’m sensing another puritanical encounter story from the way your eyes have darkened so I repurpose my yearning and misplace myself in Ladera Heights ennui for the next few minutes. I freak dance with the thick girls outside of SavVon to the sound of brazen howling and afrofuturistic lamentations on adolescent crushes, extraterrestrial life, the economic downturn, and super rich kids with nothing but loose ends.