Every Kiss Begins with Kay
I, _____, take you, _____, to be my _____, to seethe and to roil, from this day forward. I would push the button to kill everyone on earth sooner than not see you tonight, even though that’s not the moral choice, I know. For crueler, for calmer. You take my last name, and I’ll take your first name— or let’s call this off. You too should want to cut me open, crawl inside us, look out our eyes, speak with our voice. For us to be indistinguishable. For bleaker, for blacker. Because you dazzle me to the point where I forget just how hot a teenage boy can be (picture right now the most beautiful you’ve seen). Even the fear we will make a son who growls into this temptation. In sickness and in sickening. You give me a boner. Your tits give me a boner. That dizzy buoyancy when you dismount a ski lift—your boredom imprints me more permanently. Until the day I hate being with you more than I hate the thought of leaving you available for someone else.
Okay, Kay, you saggy-breasted, chain-smoking, billionaire Floridian; you lie-licking slaver; you insatiable hussy; you… Sol and Edmund Kaufman of Reading, Pennsylvania, 1916. Do your thing. Let’s get on with this.