christmas eve at grandma's....

We are getting dressed up. We are going to church then we are going to grandmas where I will spend the night and then eat our traditional Christmas breakfast and open presents before going to ten o’clock service on Christmas morning.  Christmas dawn is the only morn of the year where the Journal Star is not published. It is the only day of the year that I have off from my job.I am wearing the Manual jacket and my TO DAVE: LOVE RENAE ID bracelet. I am wearing my confirmation ring that my grandmother gave me with the initials DVB scrawled inside that my mom informed me that I am not to give to a girl.  I have on my armor. 

Like on my father’s birthday Renae is sleeping so close she could be next to me

Renae is close. She is not far. This is the one night that I don’t have to wake up at 4:30 in the morning and do my paper route. This is the one night I am free. Like Christ our savior I am being born.

The snow outside is the same as it was a week ago when her parents had their holiday get together at what will one day be Hammers. It is dusty film of chalk. Somehow I leave. Somehow I walk down Linda Ct. into the direction of where she lives, the overhead stars trumpeting in a pond of overhead ink, I am walking, I take a left on Tiara Strip, and then a right when I get to Smithville rd.

 

The spotlight off of airport road that the air National Guard used in the cities to land oncoming craft is still oscillating. I am taking off. I don’t know how far I shall get. I don’t know what time in the morning Renae is waking up to opening gifts. I duck into alpha park I can see where Renae Holidays’s grandfather’s house has dim lit television illuminated in the living room. It is 4:45. I jog through the bulk of Alpha Park. The last time I ran through a city park at this time I was completely naked.

I only know that I need to leave.

                                                                 

I can feel that she somehow is waiting for me.

 

I walk past the Baptist church. There is a little bit of snow on the ground. I walk into what looks like the moors of Alpha park. The stars pinwheeling out of control overhead.

 

I walk around the house on Lauder ave. I rap on what I presume, from infinite late night conversations is her window again. I am looking for her. I wanted to feel her, I want to enter her body the way our lord and savior entered the planet somehow on this wintry date 2000 years ago on the purported usurped pagan holiday night.

 I slide open the window as if popping open an advent calendar.

I see the James Dean poster. She is always telling me about. There is almost an exorbitant amount of stuffed animals on her bed. She is startled. I am hatching out of bridal dress pages that is Lutheran small catechism. I am becoming a man.

We don’t talk. Before I know it my tongue has entered her lips the way I bow my head and the pastor places the wafer on my tongue. We are making out hardcore just like we were two weeks ago at Westlake plaza in the icy late November rain. It feels like we are trying to morph into each other’s flesh and form an amoebic integer.

Her panties are white dappled with what looks like budding violets.

I pull down my own boxers, get caught on the cap of my knees, flexing my muscles. As I enter her body it feels like what I can only surmise is a plane taking off. An international flight. Going through her bedroom was customs. I am being interrogated. I am being frisked and grope, the window being a metal detector, asking me if I have anything on my body. There are jerks. Her body is a continent I have never been to before. She is biting her lip. She is punching up with her naval the same time I am pushing down. Her breath is ¾ time.  It is like we are trying to weld our lower torsos into one symmetrical unit.

She is telling me that it hurts
.

 I plant the cap of my knee between the apertures of her thighs.  The moment I drill myself out of her body her nails bite into my lower ass. She is feeding me into herself. She is telling me not to stop. She is telling me to keep doing what I am doing.  She is biting her teeth. She tells me that we need to be quiet because her father likes to get up at 4 in the morning and help himself to a couple of beers before he goes back to sleep.

As Christ is being born, as Christmas carols are being pledged at midnight mass on Saint Anthony’s church I find myself inside of her. I can’t believe how wet she is.  It is like her body is a fountain and I am being baptized by the church of her loins

 

She is telling me that it hurts but in a good way.

The whole time the poster of James dean is almost looking down at me. Reane’s lips are a hyphen. She kisses in ardent bites of flesh when we are kissing. As I am inside Renae I can see my jeans, sloughs, looking like a denim barnacle. I can see the Gideon bible is in my jeans, protruding like a smartphone come twenty years of accelerated time. Her body arches and jilts the moment I enter her. She is biting her bottom lip. It is like she is tying to swallow something invisible. Sweat is jet skiing in tears off the top of her brow. I am hurting her. Her lips seem to be performing rose petal calisthenics. My body is planted inside of her. I need to pull out.


I am naked.

I keep my identity bracelet on.

 

I wonder if this would have happened had I gone home with Renae the night after her father’s Christmas party at Saunders, the night when we were supposed to have the whole house to ourselves after he cousin Ian went to sleep.

 

Grandma has cable. I turn MTV at three o’clock in the morning. The Christmas tree is an emerald pyramid that looks as if it has just been torched. My siblings and cousins have finally fallen to bed. I am exhausted. Grandma will be up in less than an hour in order to start Christmas breakfast, in order to cook the German klausen with the melted prunes in the center and the egg and sausage casserole she makes every year. There will be feasting and wine will be drunk by the adults and everyone will look at me funny as I continue to drown cups of coffee as if it is some sort of contest.

There is bad comedy on MTV followed by Alternative Nation, the only time of the day MTV still plays music videos. 

 

He has dreadlocks. His waist-width is that of a syringe. He is rocking. People are falling down the stairs. He is falling down the stairs the say I can’t help but imagining falling down the rococo opening in the center of Reane’s boy like being errantly tossed down a well. He wants something more than juts someone than tersely to hold. He wants someone to bang into.


                                     

He wants someone to shove.