Met her in this shady ass little bar called the Champagne Room, and shit, if she didn’t look like a whole mess of trouble I wanted to get into. She was drinking scotch on the rocks, and that was almost as hot as that fuck-me-harder-daddy dress that when moved just wrong right gave you a sweet shot of her honey. She smiles like sunshine and moves like the twang of a guitar, but shit, if she don’t turn every head in this goddamn bar her sweet little direction.
Honeysuckle curls trembling down her back like my fingers playing piano on the ivory keys of her spine; whispering words with the strum of her acoustic guitar voice, my thrumming bass replies with equally raunchy words that her real Daddy would never want her pretty little ears to hear. Sable lashes fluttering, pearl teeth gnawing at her bottom lip that looks like a pillow for my dick. Fuck, what'd you say, baby girl?
She says her name’s Hope, and I’m hoping I’ll get under her skirt tonight. Just one little curl of my finger around that sequin hem could get me through. One little whisper in my ear, and Lord, I’m hers for the next eight hours.
Baby Girl runs her fingertips on the rim of her lipstick painted glass and nods her head before letting the rest of that liquor coat her insides with liquid courage like some funny little way of foreshadowing how I'm gonna coat her insides too, and shit I'm surprised she's even fuckin' around with me at all.
She smells like honeysuckle and laughs like wine, but shit, if she won’t eat my heart out.
We go outside, but not to brawl, and she lets me press her up against this nasty, graffiti wall, and God, she tastes like heaven on earth, like mint toothpaste, cheap red lipstick, and Tennessee whiskey. And thank the Lord her Momma ain’t there to see me drink her all up. Less is more, but I don’t remember that when I’m kissing up on Hope, when I’m loving up on Hope.
I take her home to this dirty motel room, and I’m thinking to myself, “This ain’t good enough for a girl like her.” But she don’t care. She just pulls me closer. Closer. Closer. Until I’m lost inside and can’t find my way out. And minutes later before she's starting up her own fucking religion on my cock, worshiping me like my cum's gonna save her from herself. And when she peels off the dress painted on her skin, fuck, if her body ain't the best damn piece of artwork I've ever seen. I'm in a museum, but fuck the velvet rope of her panties - I'm touching that masterpiece. And for a while, I actually love her. I love her into the oblivion of the mattress and wonder whether or not “Hurt” compares to the sound she makes when I kiss along her collarbones and make the lace between her thighs as wet as the rainy world outside, fistful of yellow flower hair and a mouthful of her skin. She's screaming Daddy, and I'm grunting some other bitch's name, her nails in my back painting little red trails.
I love her.
It ain’t love; I’m just drunk, but for Hope, I’ll pretend it is. For that short little summer night, I love her, and when she’s coming undone beneath me, I’m thinking to myself:
“Johnny Cash who?”
It’s the witching hour when we’re finally a crumpled heap of faux loving and I feel her extracting herself from me, quiet as a mouse in the church where we held praise. I’m too drunk to move, too sleepy to really care, but as I see the cursive lines of her body beginning to be covered up by black lace and her shimmering dress, I can’t help but to think that’s a pity, like throwing a plain white cloth over the Mona Lisa. She was a masterpiece covered by simplicity, and I admire her from afar.
The morning comes, and the wrinkles she left in my white sheets are cold. I can see the curves of her body still in my head, see her heels in her hand as she walked out my motel door through my eyelashes, and my heart aches in her absence. She smelled like honeysuckle and laughed like wine, and shit, if she didn’t eat my heart out. And it’s only in that sunshine filtering in through the blinds and the haze of my hangover that I realize:
It’s love, and I’m not drunk.