Sugar Water

I asked him what my name feels like when he says it like that. And if it sounds like hers too?

When my ass and torso are perfectly arched like a half pipe, a lower case letter ‘u’.  When he slaps my ass then holds on for dear life…gripping like handlebars, all 42 inches of my rotund ass.  And pulls my braids like reins for direction…do it do, what she do?

I have to bite pillows to brace myself. Shift unnoticeably and bend or rise to get better angles. And sometimes he forgets that I’m there. But I know what to do to make him remember me. And so I…you know…muffle his words and moans and make him blow raspberries and motorboats.

He says I taste like sugar water.  I wonder if she tastes like Flint water?

And I know, I’m being petty about this. But I don’t give a damn that it’s me he chooses to be with. He’s here and wants to be and according to him, needs to be with me. To feel some type of normalcy in his world. Some type of relevance in him needing to feel like a man.

I heard she cries. I don’t. I hear she whines. I won’t. I hear she wonders about me. I can’t.

It’s relaxing to be with me and if I have to be the saving grace that keeps him maintaining us both, then so be it.

Shut up girl and one day you’ll thank me.


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