I fucking hate lilies.
I didn’t used to. Hell, I used to think they were lovely and fragrant and the perfect way to center a bouquet to say, “Thank you so much for the sex, young lady. You are pretty and perfect and I’m not exactly sure why it took me two hours and then some to cum but rest assured, it has nothing to do with you, your body or talents as a lover and probably everything to do with the fact that, when we were doing it, I was singing the entirety of Flood to myself over and over again to try and erase the image of my mother’s O face which I saw too many times at too tender an age and FYI, when I finally did cum on your belly, I came during the whip crack of ‘Minimum Wage’ so…HEE-YAH, BABY!” because sometimes that’s exactly what you need to relay and when you do, roses just won’t do.
But now, I’m allergic. Not excitingly so. I don’t get all hivey and gasping and red with death panic. I just get stupid and grumpy and my equilibrium goes to shit. I forget things like my name and address and if I’m lucky (as I was today) I get a crippling migraine while sorting my laundry at the place that allows long-haired, rat dogs and big fat screaming families whose children smear ice cream fingerprints fucking everywhere which is awesome because once I get one, I’m bound to get three and that means my time in the salt mines this week is bound to be the worst since that winter of roofing.
And no one will give a shit except my lady who, when I come home broke-eyed and bloody, will give me a kiss, hold my face and say “I can’t wait until you don’t have to make your living this way” and I’ll try and smile and mumble “I’m working on it” and then maybe I’ll shower or probably I won’t but I will crack a beer (then three), setting myself in front of this infernal machine to try and make something worth sharing with strangers and if I succeed, that’ll feel like a miracle and if I can’t – well, shit – I’ll have my chicken skin.