Skip to main content

Real True Romance

It's pretty fucking easy to be romantic when you have the lighting set right, the flowers on the bed, the gift-wrapped dildo engraved with both your names, the picnic, the horses, the beach sex where she doesn't mention the sand in her puss and you don't mention that your dick is exfoliated, the french restaurant with the El Salvadorian cooks, the confessions of undying love underneath satin sheets while your other baby is texting you the color of their skanky panties.


Yes it's very easy to be romantic like that.


But that isn't romance at all. That's just Hallmark conditioning love. And that's fine. That's very nice to do once in a while. But that just isn't really romance.


You know, if we end up in a motel 6 together, with a dead guy in the pool, a sleeping puerto-rican gangster on the ottoman, and 10,000 dollars we don't ever remember having before last night, that'll be romance. If we can kiss each other and taste vomit without flinching, THAT is romance. If we can throw up on each other in the shower, THAT is romance. If you hold back my hair while I'm dry heaving in the bathtub and still have the mind to play with a titty, THAT is romance. If I give you a blumpkin.... THAT'S STRAIGHT UP LOVE.


You should still take me out to some place fucking expensive though. Red Lobster style.

Comments

  1. I'd take you to so many places that you wouldn't eat red lobster if someone paid you.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I was thinking we could fly to Paris and wander the city until we found somewhere that piqued our interest, but Olive Garden is always good too.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Paris is a hollywood set. All the buildings are made of cardboard and duct tape.

    ReplyDelete
  4. A true paramour. A woman who dreams not of luxury but romance. You are an uncommon occurence in this age of materialistic hedonism. I cannot help but envy the man who is so fortunate to tickle your fancy.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I Can't Hear Your Little Red Rooster

Fright

I call this room Home.

He will not look at me

His eyes flicker with

a speck of violence.



my strained smile,

disgusted by

my pleading eyes.

my veins freeze

icy blood

tearing through coronaries




May Day

'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…