I am letting her rest now, enjoying a quiet moment with her while I empty the plastic bag on the floor between us. Her breasts are bristling with bright plastic clothespins, concentric rings outlining the bulls eyes of her n*****s, which I saved for last. The remainder of the little jaws bite her inner thighs, two rows advancing toward her labia. They hurt going on. They will hurt more coming off.
I was writing a postcard to Hung Low when the doorbell rang.
I had stopped writing the long letters after the first month, when my explanations and apologies went unanswered. My messages had become less personal and more platonic. I had been scrawling “Having a wonderful time!” and that sort of tripe on postcards. (This one was a photo of the Washington Monument. She would appreciate the sublim
