Here's what I'm thinking, La Tasha. I just got my tax return, $261, and I'm thinking tonight I'm gonna treat you real special, and later: I'm gonna put my tongue in your mouth, but slowly, like a slug in my grandma's garden goes after one of her putrefied apples. My tongue gonna move like a big old warm and wet glacier, right into your mouth. You gonna love it, cause it's gonna move slow, wet, and warm. Right into your mouth.
But here's how the evening shall start.
We roll deep in my lowered Honda to the local AM-PM. This one, up on Mill Plain. I park sideways. Glass packs and cold air intake. My boy Snoop is laying down knowledge with such august conviction the bass is registering deep on the Richter, into the depths of your molars, and upon the poorly-fastened license plate cover surrounding my new neon-framed vanity plate. The buzz aggravates canines for miles.
Driver's side door ajar, I point at you in that playful way you claim is "sexy," since we first met at that C-Tran bus stop, and say "stay here." I'm wearing white socks, pulled up to my knees, and Adidas flip flops. You know the look. I'm a gangsta. I'm six two and weigh 91 pounds. Wife beater tee. Over-sized Adidas shorts. Lanyard and keys. Visor flipped up, and chipped front tooth.
I hitch-walk into the AM-PM, but I'm chill, take my time. I look around. I look at Mexicans right in the face, like I do at work, like I know they expect a man to do. Don't front. It takes me eleven minutes to finally broach the establishment's esteemed threshold. My head: it's bobbing. My left hand is doing tha gangsta dance thing I saw on TV.
American Spirits, natch. I'm packing them, I'm packing them HARD, as I saunter over to the nachos....aw yeah, La Tasha, the application of cheese upon chips: pornographic. Taking my time, with care ensuring the crusty dried cheese parts are scraped off the nozzle with the edge of the cardboard carrier. My head's bobbing, the purveyor of the establishment, one Balasubramanian Shanmugakuma, of Karnataka, India, appears to be unimpressed. Whatever, Apu. I'm PAYING YOU. Best treat me with RESPECT.
I spit into the trash. chipped tooth. Fuck yeah. Technically broke it skateboarding, but because none of my friends still skate, and nobody at work knows, and because I have both it and my forearm ROWR tiger tat: these are very gangsta. It's kind of a "I've been to the county lockup" thing.
I'm walking slowly back to the car, and you looking at me, and I'm looking at you. It's drizzling, and it's cold. But I don't care. I walk like I just got out of the shower, and like I'm warm, even though I'm not warm. Candidly, I'm freezing. I don't have any body fat, and I'm. I'm freezing.
But you my special gal, and tonight, gurl? Oh yeah. It's on. I fend to put my tongue in your mouth, slow, like honey from grandma's crusty old multi-microwaved honey bear container onto a spoon, and there ain't nothing your foster mom gonna do about it.
But this time I'm going to take SPECIAL care to get all the masticated chips all up outta my mouth first, I'll wash it out with cherry 7-UP, because I'm your man, and I remember last time, when you claimed there wuz chips and part of my chewed fingernail all up in yo mouth, and how I promised to never do that nasty shit again.
And my promises. They MEAN somethin. read more
