“You should kill yourself,” she sneered, after I laughed about liking the 2016 frog energy.
She was a black haired beauty with bright blue eyes, and smelled like vanilla on Sunday morning. She wore a black blouse with black skinny jeans, and her sun kissed skin couldn’t hide her freckles. My lips curled into a smile, and she instinctively returned her own shark smile.
“Sorry about your luck, but you’re stuck with me,” and I picked her up and laid her onto the bed. We kissed. She gave the most amazing blowjob, and describing it would be entirely too pornographic. I enjoyed my summer with the goth gf. We shared a primal passion for one another, a kind of unforgettable fling that poets pour their hearts out to. I conquered her, and she enjoyed every second of it.
She dressed in black and was a communist. I dressed in blue jeans and loved my roots.
I met her by spending time with people involved in her politics. I wanted to understand why they had a problem; I never did—it seemed a safe form of rebellion, and a funny place to pick up a date.
You should have seen the dorks they had leading their club. I remember them going around the room: everyone had to announce their pronouns. Everyone used the pronouns you would have expected, and I wondered why we had to go through such a strange ritual.