Coprolite
From a dead sleep, I wake to an unusual smell. It is somehow familiar, yet it takes a moment for its name to surface from some dark recessed corner of my mind. Sniff, sniff. I keep my eyes closed, concentrating on this game: Sniff, sniff.
My eyes pop open in recognition. I can name that pungency in four sniffs.
It’s roses. Well, not really. It’s the smell of things that are supposed to smell like roses. Petal fresh aerosol and rosebud perfume. It’s the scent that lace doilies and pink cut glass would have if lace doilies and pink cut glass had scents. It smells like rose-scented soap, and, well, it smells like my Grandma.
My eyes focus on the wall, papered in the most delicate mauve flower print. I have no idea where I am. “This could be worse,” I think, and just as I’m wondering how it could be worse, a body shifts next to me and my question is answered. I am not alone. I don’t move, and I hope like hell the pounding of my heart doesn’t give me away.
Fuck! Where am I? How did I get here? Lying perfectly still, I cast my eyes to the floor along the side of the bed. An empty bottle of Jager offers a partial explanation. My ripped blue jeans and muscle shirt are partially heaped on what appears to be an empty bottle of Old Crow. Old Crow!?! I don’t drink bourbon. Shit!
The body behind me is stirring now. I’ve given up looking for clues. Now all I want to find is my shoes. If I can get to my shoes, I can get the hell out of here. Ah! There they are towards the foot of the bed, under those support hose.
SUPPORT HOSE?! WHAT THE FUCK?
My whole body tenses and jerks with sudden realization. “Good morning to you, too,” the body next to me says in an aged voice.
“I, um, well, yeah, like I totally need to go now........” I whimper feebly.
“Oh come on now, that’s not what you said last night.” She moves her face closer, so close that it seems all I can see is her smeared lipstick, settling into the wrinkles around her mouth.
“That’s the best thing about finding a hot young piece of ass,” she continues in what forty years ago must have been a seductive growl but now sounds like phlegm being extruded through gravel. “You’re always up for fun. ALWAYS.”
With a gnarled hand, she presses me back flat onto the mattress, her cotton white hair moving lower, lower until she’s squarely between my legs.
My groan of frustration for getting myself into this situation is quickly replaced by a groan of pleasure that I really, really didn’t know I could feel.
I guess there’s something to be said for ancient artifacts.
My eyes pop open in recognition. I can name that pungency in four sniffs.
It’s roses. Well, not really. It’s the smell of things that are supposed to smell like roses. Petal fresh aerosol and rosebud perfume. It’s the scent that lace doilies and pink cut glass would have if lace doilies and pink cut glass had scents. It smells like rose-scented soap, and, well, it smells like my Grandma.
My eyes focus on the wall, papered in the most delicate mauve flower print. I have no idea where I am. “This could be worse,” I think, and just as I’m wondering how it could be worse, a body shifts next to me and my question is answered. I am not alone. I don’t move, and I hope like hell the pounding of my heart doesn’t give me away.
Fuck! Where am I? How did I get here? Lying perfectly still, I cast my eyes to the floor along the side of the bed. An empty bottle of Jager offers a partial explanation. My ripped blue jeans and muscle shirt are partially heaped on what appears to be an empty bottle of Old Crow. Old Crow!?! I don’t drink bourbon. Shit!
The body behind me is stirring now. I’ve given up looking for clues. Now all I want to find is my shoes. If I can get to my shoes, I can get the hell out of here. Ah! There they are towards the foot of the bed, under those support hose.
SUPPORT HOSE?! WHAT THE FUCK?
My whole body tenses and jerks with sudden realization. “Good morning to you, too,” the body next to me says in an aged voice.
“I, um, well, yeah, like I totally need to go now........” I whimper feebly.
“Oh come on now, that’s not what you said last night.” She moves her face closer, so close that it seems all I can see is her smeared lipstick, settling into the wrinkles around her mouth.
“That’s the best thing about finding a hot young piece of ass,” she continues in what forty years ago must have been a seductive growl but now sounds like phlegm being extruded through gravel. “You’re always up for fun. ALWAYS.”
With a gnarled hand, she presses me back flat onto the mattress, her cotton white hair moving lower, lower until she’s squarely between my legs.
My groan of frustration for getting myself into this situation is quickly replaced by a groan of pleasure that I really, really didn’t know I could feel.
I guess there’s something to be said for ancient artifacts.