The stretched ears of truth

So things were going well in our relationship. Well, about a well as they can go in a relationship where both partners are virgins and plan on staying that way well into marriage. We had gotten to know each other over six months of smouldering eye contact, glittering words of praise, and chaste cherries dipped into vestal chocolate.

I had taken up smoking. I needed something to do with my hands that wasn’t… thumbing through online beauty-logues. My shorts had become shorter. I had developed a fixation on the style of Whortense_16, a honey-limbed adolescent on Instagram. Even though it was cold Autumn i found myself adopting Labia-pink High-tops and those jeans that you can’t put your organic lipstick in because the pockets hang sub-short level. This was all an expression of my stalwart feminism of course. Johnny was so proud of me for consolidating my rebellion  against the adult norm of promiscuity that he took to giving me encouraging smacks on the buttocks and even followed in gaudy suit by purchasing a gym membership.

Things were going really well for so long. We compromised a lot of friendships with our sententious bragging about abstinence and our rejection of all drugs except certain rx brands of coffee. Night’s were spent watching re-juvenated Disney classics on a vibrant Panasonic TV, and changing the bed sheets (poor Johnny wan’t strong enough to stop having wet-dreams). During the day we’d go to church and, with slippery whispers and a hand on each other’s knee, mock the credulous Christians for needing a God-figure to tell them to be abstinent.

Things were really swell. I could see that Johnny looked at me with the fiery adoration of an equal. I started to watch a lot of Bruce LaBruce’s more underground cuts and, weirdly enough, evolved a small collection of items formerly belonging to him (Clash records, a pink bong, few lines of dialogue for a film about homosexual zombies found on the reverse of a Johnny Walker label). Meanwhile Johnny (no relation to Walker), found himself a way to salve his “Cognitive dissonance” by doing volunteer work with a local body building troupe. He’d go to exhibitions and oil up the talent. He said he mostly worked from behind, patting moisture into the shoulder blades and thighs of bald headed, muscle-bound friends.

Like i said, things were going really well. Me and Johnny aren’t together anymore. George’s lane, off Sharpes St, ruined our relationship. It’s a coarse, poorly made cobblestone fiasco that is signed at 50 kilometres an hour but should, for the safety of relationships, be at about 20. I was driving up there in November, feeling a delightful breath of air up my thighs as a i pushed the Vespa to 40, when an errant stone lodged my front tire and sent me pinwheeling through the air, legs akimbo. Of course, because i foolishly wasn’t wearing underwear, i landed pelvis first on the head of a dark-skinned European man named Jorge. I have the worst luck. Anyway, that wasn’t what ended my relationship with Johnny. It was probably the Council’s error more than anything. Despite writing to them, asking them to rectify the problem in George’s lane, they took no action. And my poor litle vesper stands no power against the potholes. And the only way to get to work is to go down Geroge’s lane. Everyday.

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