Lu Terikowski’s next offering – and I mightly resisted the pun hiding there – with a shocking and at the same time disturbingly sweet piece on why I hate vanilla pudding. I hope – but fear it is not – this is a product of an incredible imagination. No one has painted that way in centuries with such a stark wordbrush. Thanks.
I was 15 when I lost my virginity. His nose was too large for his face and he had hungry hands that made their way up my shirt and between my thighs. He rolled on top of me and hovered there with his legs bowing together where his cargo shorts wrapped around his knees. He rocked toward me and I shook my head.
“Just a little bit?”
His nostrils widened as he smiled at me. I shook my head again.
“Just for a second.”
He moved forward and I inched my hips and shoulders back until my neck craned against his scratched headboard, stacked with fruit candy and video games. He kept moving forward. Candy wrappers crunched against my head and my hands became filled with static and weight. And, as they lay useless beside me, he pushed against me, a very motivated battering ram with no real target.
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