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.