Like making love to a warm wet towel. The basis of our relationship is rooted in anarchy. Making love to a warm wet towel. Making love to a warm wet towel. You try to pull away, but it’s kinda funny y’know, because you pull away with this like centripetal backlash that just brings you closer, like you actually enjoy the–warmer—tension. Then you try to keep this cool casual distance but it’s just like those lovers divided by triple-plane glass at prison, touching across it and the love is more significant because of it. Warm wet towel. Warm wet towel. Wet towel. And I don’t understand why you do certain things. Every time you say “I guess” or “have it your way” you run your hands through your hair, like… you’re Elvis or something, like when you move your hand it isn’t the normal movement but a kind of incantation, and that when you say that and move your hand like that it becomes real, somehow, it becomes transferred into reality. Like a warm wet, warm wet. And at Prom, you showed up an hour late to pick me up in a tuxedo that was three sizes too small, it was grotesque. Even the chaperones who had been trained to watch for low cuts and high trims and kids with turpentine on their breath didn’t know how to handle that malformed entity, its shape elusive and damaged and darkly suggestive. And you handled me so roughly. You never took off your sunglasses. I just looked in and it looked like nothing, not even a reflection. It didn’t even go through. A warm wet towel. Warm wet towel. A warm. And then later that night when my parents finally allowed us to use the Jacuzzi, I told you I didn’t want to get in with everyone because I heard if girls were doing a certain thing during a certain time that you might catch something, it gets distilled through the water, like a chemical or gas. But you didn’t seem to care. Once we entered there was suddenly a group of people around us. They seemed split like a cocktail party. Parties of people that when they broke up looked natural. I could see a girl’s floral top of a two-piece right behind you. Then you came up all predatory—wet towel, wet towel—hungry and cutting the water in half so that it made arrows on either side, guiding it, and I thought: it really is like getting blasted with a soft jet, or otherwise when you’re young and playing on your parents’ lawn and someone, you never get to see them directly, surprises you with a splash from a Super Soaker, and it feels calm and misting and unexpected and exactly what you needed right then, it felt somewhat right, y’know, in a way that wasn’t anticipated or fate or what you read in teen magazine, and I remembered looking up in your eyes afterwards and you said–wet towel.
Like Making Love To A Warm Wet Towel
By Casey Henry,