J–, you left your underwear again. I’m wondering if I should start a collection of your multi-colored underpants, a crayola box of pastels and earth tones and greyscale briefs. Why do you still wear briefs? What are you, in fourth grade? Should I give you a wedgie for it? Fourth grade was rough for me, I remember. I was into a girl at the same time, I was jacking off thinking about guys. Do you jack off when you think of me? Is the cum stains on your underwear the result of nightly visions of me?
J–, when will you realize I am not one big motel you can enter and leave anytime you want? Or if you want, at least pay me for renting out the crevices of my body. Can you afford the high-rise lifestyle – jet-setting across metro manila with nothing but a credit card, a pack of extra-large condoms and a bottle of lube. Lube is funny, I love saying lube. I love looking at lube. Lube can also be used for cars. They get the engines all hot and steamy, ready for action with the click of the ignition.
J–, I’m trying on your underwear and I realize you’re two sizes smaller than I am. Never knew being a slut was such an experience. I should try it. Maybe, we could try it together? We’ll be the slutty open couple. Well, of course, that presumes we’re a couple, we’re not, I know. If we were, we could find other couples to bang or stray single men for a threeway or cuddle for warmth, naked underneath a torn tablecloth masquerading as a blanket, when the storm hits the city.
J–, forget your underwear. Why can’t you go commando, I’ll follow your suit? We’ll ravage the town with our unsupported dicks, stealing looks and kisses. A physical kiss not the one manufactured by Hershey’s. Not that we can’t eat. Would you like me to buy you a box of that on our anniversary? Perhaps on our mensuary? I’ll give you a box of choc’late and you’ll give me a bouquet of flowers. We’ll laugh since we’re English majors and we know it’s such a cliche but deep down, a wide expansion is occuring inside us as if the a vast savannah were growing in the pit of our belly.
J–, the underwear is piling up. Small piles are turning into moderate heaps into large mountains of stained, used underwear. My room is overflowing you. I am huddled in a corner of my bed, your sea of briefs are taking over the vast expanse of the floor. In my mind, you are my knight and you’ll swoop in and save me from the countless briefs. How exactly do you destroy a demonic pair of underpants? Should we kneel down and receive communion from the holy dick? Could you please get your underwear away from me? Mine is prettier and significantly cleaner.
THIS IS THE TAROT CHALLENGE, a 78-day writing challenge where everyday I pick out a random card from my tarot deck and write something about, against, inspired by, based on the card by the day’s end. The works can range from poetry to fiction to drama. When the card is from the major arcana, the title of the work should be the card name. When the card is from the minor arcana, the title can be different but the card drawn should be revealed at the end.
Pingback: I Wear Mens Underwear « Fat Girl Approved
I love short pieces like this. It’s gorgeous and compact. I also like the creative exercise of a tarot card each day – you have approached it with great creativity. Nice work.
Kind words. Thank you so much for reading 🙂
Pingback: The Tarot Writing Challenge: A Post-Script | Deelaytful