Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Crotchfire: True Stories Of The Redhead, Tragic Memoir Two

That pretty white BMW nestled itself so perfectly in my driveway. You knew I had a soft spot for that car, it was special for many reasons. That hot summer day outside the office, in the back seat, that was explosive, soaking wet love we made. It was only the second time we had been in each others presence, and we weren't the least bit ashamed. I used to love when you would take off those wedges so you could change gears smoothly. I remember how you left it parked sideways in the driveway the day I met him. It was parked sideways because I hastened your exit from the car with the placement of my hand. He shook that same hand with apprehension the very next day. The day you informed me you chose to marry him the BMW was absent. At the end of the pier sat a Ferrari and a Prius belonging to your father. The Bavarian car was at my shop having a VANOS solenoid replaced. A few days later I was drying the feather-white paint after I had washed it. You stood over me as I dried the wheels. Not a word was spoken but we both knew what had occurred. Continuing to try was futile. I was better off keeping my quiet position in your life. I knew life was better whilst making love to you than not having you at all. It hurt to know love took a backseat to social standing. On your wedding day I saw it sitting alone outside your house. The white BMW 550i M-Sport.

Sunday, December 21, 2014

Crotchfire: True Stories Of The Redhead, Tragic Memoir One

I've oft referenced The Redhead, a woman of much higher caste than myself, who used said social standing to crush my soul. I was trapped within a web of deceit so often used by the wealthy. The impression I gleaned was that I was her lover, but really I was a slave compensated in lies and copulation. Over the years I took the time to write down short memoirs of our time together, good and bad. Let me end this preface with this: We may be free to choose, but we are limited in actions by the choices society makes for us.

I always loved your powerful ginger hair. It seemed to have always framed your face so well. It's no secret I adore ginger hair, but yours always seemed to excite me so much more. The wind brushed it ever so perfectly as we sat on the pier. My mind flashes to the way you so coyly fingered your champagne flute as we watched the water serenely push across the lake. Your face was tinged with such a bright red from embarrassment when our adult merriment made you force that champagne flute through it's own arse. It didn't last long though. Those words:

"Ethan, I am going to marry Peter."

"Fuck you."

"I'm so sorry."

"Fuck you."

And as I cautiously pulled myself from her embrace:

"I have to!"

"Don't touch me you lying whore."

I had never been so filled with rage in my life. My borrowed Ferrari seemed so distant sitting at the far end of the pier. What I truly remember is the patter of gravel as it whipped the paint off the rear flanks. It was my last escape from my heartache. The lake estate's drive was windy, darting through thick enclaves of deciduous trees. I knew no matter how much she pretended, she felt no remorse for making the easy decision. When I finally found the road, I broke into tears, I was upset with myself for allowing naïveté to get the best of me. I truly believed she would choose me over the world she was born into. Oh, was I ever wrong.