She Makes Cakes
September 30, 2011 § 1 Comment
I gave you the first blow job of your life, back behind the church after youth group. You had braces and I had stolen money to send you flowers on Valentines Day for our junior high’s stupid tulip delivery to raise funds for the 8th grade trip to Six Flags fund raiser. I’d sent you seven tulips that day, Anonymously, with notes that said shit like, “Knock Knock, Who’s There, Just a Flower” and “You don’t know me, but you should.”
And I’d blown you and I’d loved you and you had braces and you played the trumpet. But every day you and Jill were kissing in the hallway and I couldn’t see the chubby, short, hoser you’d become one day because when I ran past you in gym class you’d always wink at me.
You didn’t hang out at Skateland, trying to finger girls. You didn’t smoke ditch weed or break into houses at lunch time to see if there was any booze around. But you did ask me to blow you behind the church, and you knew I would do it, and then you cried, and then you never even looked at me again.
So now you work for the very same church, and you’re married with a kid, and you like to go to ballgames, and your wife is the sort who doesn’t put photos of herself on Facebook. She puts up photos of pink ribbons about boob cancer, or photos of crosses instead. She has only one album and it’s called “Cakes” because she makes cakes, I suppose, to make money while you’re working for the lord at our old church.
And I did find a picture of you two together, at Six Flags, of all places, both fat and happier than I’ll ever be at size 2. But I wonder if you’ve ever taken her out behind the church, held her hand, made her feel half as good as I did to have your attention to myself, and then asked her if she’d give you a blowjob. And I wonder, if the two of you ever did get up to that sort of blasphemous debauchery, if you closed your eyes and saw me, age 12, looking up at you like you were going to be your own kind of God one day.