One Black Night - TLC 46

King Louis’s paramour dialed his cell. He answered her call of the wild and turned off The History Channel. He slammed the laundry door causing a massive 7.9 earthquake in remote Sichuan killing 10,000+ children in the rubble.

He got into her Tudor fuel-efficient machine. Slamming her erotic door created aftershocks in Tectonic plates below Java forming tsunamis erasing 200,000 village people at Ground Zero.

He kissed her hard love.

“Wow,” she said, “that was delicious. Say more. I feel insecure and despise my shameful intentions using treachery and guile.”

“Your vocabulary’s improving with guilt. I am too sad to speak. My verbal actions revealing internal repressed anger will illustrate my morose story. I whine about America and how I lost my chance to be rich and famous. I played college baseball and the coach never let me hit. I sat on the bench getting splinters in my ass. I was always treated with disrespect. I will reap what I sow. People cheat you. You can only trust 10%. They disarm you with sweet nothings. Man needs language to woo women. Never trust a woman who wears her dress too tight. Treat them like dirt and you won’t get hurt.”

“What kind of story?”

“Drive around. I will concoct a mysterious magical truthful tale of self-pity, fear and alienation. I will reveal the meaningless of my puny little existence.”

“I need six inches of your hard meaning.”

She shifted out of park. Thin hands gripped life’s wheel. She remembered wild sex with the angry muscular teacher speaking of death, Indian food, foreign language lips, smells, taste tests, groping, racing hearts, a throbbing purple snake, love juice. She couldn’t eat, sleep, dream or focus, savoring unconscious fragments.

“I am a man eater. You are a real man. I will eat your heart. This is our custom. Our lover’s heart gives us strength, vitality and power. In exchange I will give you something to remember me by and by.”

“What happens after you eat my heart?”

“You’ll see. I’ll grow up to be big and strong with courage.”

“See? See what, how, when, where, who, why?”

“Ah, the quest-ion words. You’ll see. Trust me. Release your insecurities and fears. Celebrate joy and life with gratitude. You started well because you compromised your ethics. After we met I remember how you came home and told Lucky how you only wanted to be friends with me, how you didn’t date women who smoked and then after I gave you my hot smoking sex you changed your tune. You started singing a variation of your former thematic ideology. Your loud boisterous voice mellowed from the concerto to the sublime. You ran out of meaningful words to say about life in the states of consumption living with fear, ignorance and....you compromised your morals and principals and values based on primal lust. My illuminated illustrated body gave you more than you figured you needed. Or needed to figure speaking of my skin glowing in the dark, my swollen labial lips gorged with blood as I panted harder, harder yes yes yes tracing memories down my spine walking through a Marrakesh souk hearing plaintive sellers shout ‘Hout, Hout,’ meaning dead fish as Omar’s son, playing Pan’s magical flute enticed a black cobra in a timeless trance dance.”

“Yes,” Louis whispered to her shadow free existence exploring her labia major. A hard rain beat roof rhythms. “I didn’t know how shallow I was when I came here.”

“The more you learn the less you know.”

Winter Hawk’s aerial perspective sang bye-bye to a red rose blooming near Bamboo. Light escaped thin gray clouds above Marmara Sea more know less.

“You were and still are large and loud,” she said, swallowing his alchemical semantic fluids in her crucible. “Such a fine little life stew we brew with pleasure and pain my sweet warrior.”

“Honey pie you are driving me crazy.”

“Leave the driving to me.”

They shifted positions for better GPS triangulation on her refugee relocation assistance program. Achieving orgasm she sang, “Keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel.”

“Drive papa home baby,” said Louis approaching rapture.

“I don’t know how well you handle jealousy,” she said. “It’s a factor in relationships here.”

“Say more about trust.”

“Jealousy is a well used behavior modification strategy here. Feminine manipulation controls weak males. Mama boys. Guilt trips. I play the victim and you play the rescuer. Do you get it? My love is like a faucet. I turn it off, turn it on.”

“The word get is the joker word in English.”

“Get on, get in, get by, get over, get through, get going, get set from the get go,” sang Ms. Linguist.

Exploring his hand-held device improved her reception.