I was whispering in your ear, I was telling you that I thought it was unnecessary that you shower this very instance. But you were not concerned with me.
You had melded into a fine business man, suits and ties, matching socks and a huge sense of monetary accomplishment.
Our years of struggling through college had brought us here, to the land of excess, a neighborhood of shallow personalities and luxury sedans. Even I had one now, you took away my El Camino as a surprise, putting a Jag in the shadow it used to occupy. I tried to show my appreciation, but I cried in the shower that night. You loved me. You loved me so much that you must have never really listened to the way I talked about that car, us ALWAYS having THAT car. But still, I remained hopeful for us, hopeful possessions or stature would not change what we had.
Your attention was wavering. I would get on my hands and knees to please you every night if you would have had it, and when I did, I got nothing in return. One time, if I remember correctly, you moved my head over to watch the game seconds after you released yourself on my bared chest.
I missed digging through the couch cushions, pulling out every pocket in every coat and finally diving under the mats of that Chevy looking for enough change to make a midnight run to Taco Hell.
Do you remember when the cans in our pantry did not have to line up perfectly? Now you scream at me about the fucking towels not matching. Is that even a subject that SHOULD cause an argument?
You said I started taking too long in the grocery store, you called and berated me as I stood in the corn aisle one night. When I got home, you pointed out that I had bought the wrong corn and threw the can at me.
"Were you with someone that caused this lapse of intelligence, or are you just THAT stupid?", you quarried.
Tonight I whispered to you, please don't shower yet, let me taste you,,, NOW!
You had been working in the yard because our lawn boy was out of town, far be it from you not to look perfectly in control. Your hands were dirty, sweat caressing your face, I was longing for that man, the one who was impetuous, to be back with me. I had hoped for your once calloused and strong hand to graze my ribcage and push me to the cold tile floor, forcing yourself inside me to the sounds of my pleasured gasps and frantic hands grasping your ass when you moved away to take a breath.
Instead, you push me to the door, laughing at my failed advances. I was a whore because I wanted it dirty, after all, we weren't teenagers anymore.