"Red ribbon of desire... or Food Stamp Lube (Parental Advisory Warning)" by Wm. Andrew Turman

Never get involved with a nymphomaniac psychopath; 

this I say from personal experience. 

Back in 2010, I did. I am paying for it even today, 

and will for two more years hence.

I met her on craigslist. 

We exchanged a few e-mails, 

and agreed to meet at Sheetz.

We sat for hours, 

sharing laptop photos at the local hot spot. 

Remember, I had just gotten out of the hospital, 

released manic.

My ex- had refused me access 

to my disabled son, for 18 months.

 I missed two Christmases and two birthdays.

I had moved in with a friend I made in the joint,

fellow bipolar and addict. He introduced me to junk, 

but that is a different story, for a different time.

We had fun, whiling away 

a cold February afternoon, 

regaling each other with exaggerated artistic tales about our exploits.

We exchanged phone numbers, 

and said our goodbyes. I was surprised 

to have her ring me up later, inviting me to come over to her house, 

for take-out chinese and a Hitchcock film.

My new roommate dropped me off, 

about a mile from his house, driving my car. 

I was not prepared for what was to come.

She was a photographer, and

offered to take some "Art portraits," 

a euphemism for nudie pics.

As I was into self-injurious behaviors, 

due to my ex-wife's stubborn denials to see my son, 

I had a fresh batch of scars from 

knife scratches on my chest and belly.

I assumed the position, 

tucking my penis between my legs, in

an effort of some semblance of modesty.

She towered above me on the bed, snapping away. 

She said the new wounds would be 

a great contrast to my toned body.

I believed her. 

I also believed her when 

she said it was too lateand too cold for me to leave.

She ended sucking me off, but

I wanted to be inside of her.

So I was. It was a perfect fit.

I did not leave her house 

for forty days and forty nights. 

All the while, fucking four or five times a day.

I was hypomanic and hypersexual. 

Do the math. I earned my redwings. Twice. 

And tossed salad for the first time.

As we were both unemployed, 

we were both on food stamps. 

She told me the best lube could be purchased with them. 

Coconut butter, in the ethnic section.

One night, she came to bed 

dressed only in a red ribbon tied around her neck, 

so I obliged by unwrapping the present.

Foreplay usually consisted 

of me going down on her while she smoked a cigarette. 

THAT was sexy, I thought at the time.

Once she quivered, it was my turn. 

She gulped amaretto and went down on me 

like an feral animal.

Then, her favorite position, 

me taking her from behind, 

pounding away as hard as I could, 

until she moaned in shudders.

She was multi-orgasmic, and

I was too eager to please. 

My record was making her come in fifteen seconds. 

I would rarely climax, until 

four or five rounds of her thrashing, gnashing orgasms 

and I took her in her ass.

Then it was clean-upon aisle number one. 

She would straddle my face and 

I would taste the salty-sweet sex of our juices mixed together.

No good came of that relationship, except 

perhaps my schooling in tantric sex; 

lighting candles, taking a bath together, shaving each other, 

dancing naked, making love for hours, until we finally came in a heap like dirty laundry.

She ended up putting me in jail, 

under a false kidnapping claim, 

when I tried to take her crazy ass to a hospital. 

Never get involved with a 

nymphomaniac psychopath; 

this I say from personal experience. 

I know. 

Now.

--