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Jodi Angel, author of You Only Get Letters from Jail and Matthew Spektor, author of Amerian Dream Machine reading at Powell's Books Monday, July 22, 7:00pm
I am in agony.
You, my honey-hued dear, ma bichette, you devour my thoughts and my dreams. My veins are on fire. I see glimpses of you, gold-dusted in the morning light, prance past my bedroom door—you give me a spine-thrill of delight. Your auburn hair, your silky supple bare back, your lips like licked red candy…
I beg you, ma petite, to sneak away to the shores of our little lake. I will assist you in your studies.
On Mathematics, Division: Unpeel your bobby socks, one by one, slide your tartan skirt down your school-girl thighs. And Addition: Trace my fingers along your downy arms, count the goosebumps of your flesh. On Geography: My southbound mouth will travel down your lovely indrawn abdomen, your puerile hips—pause briefly, for the tip of my tongue to explore the crenulated imprint left by the band of your undershorts. On French: Oh, I will teach you words, ma cherie, I will teach you words…
Will you continue to torture me? Will you let me breathe hotly down your neck? Next time I see you, I will pull you onto my knee—will you let me? Will you leave? Chain me to you, if you please.
RE: Exhibit Number One: Your delicate flesh…(m4w) - pic
You dirty, old dope! Lucky for you, I love to visit the lake. I’ll go only if you drive me, and promise to bring me something sweet. My friend Rosaline from school says that a man should always bring you something if they want something from you.
I’ll wear the bathing suit I had on yesterday—I saw you staring at me, you naughty thing. I might even climb into your lap, and let you sing me a song, as long as you keep your hands to yourself. Mother always says manners matter.
We can sit in the dark and whisper to each other, and I’ll let you drool all over me.