God, I think about popping molly for like a year.
Bonnie touches my leg and says, “But you have to do it with someone you trust.”
“I trust you,” I tell her. We’re sitting on my bed and I kiss her neck. “Trust you. Trust you.”
Bonnie who calls me from Camden, high on horse tranquilizers and not sure how to get home. Bonnie who goes on runs that last for hours. Her name isn’t Bonnie at all, but something much more fitting.
Instead, she digs in her purse and pulls out a sock full of marijuana.
“Smell this,” she says, shoving the weed sock in my face.
I’m only interested in substances for the sexual experience. Like the first time I masturbated while high. I felt like my semen was too big for my urethra.
Still in bed, Bonnie runs her fingers through my hair, whispers shh, watches me get off.
The first time we had sex, she was wearing a big black dress, and as I untied it, I discovered a railroad of scars that traveled down her spine, pink and fleshy and smooth. The closest thing the human skin ever had to a zipper. I imagined all the lights inside her, my pupils dilating wildly.
The night my girlfriend dumped me, Bonnie came over, sucking on a bottle of wine. It was Halloween, and she was wearing a clown costume.
Bonnie watched me, as I sat in my closet rubbing one of my girlfriend’s shirts all over my face.
“I don’t know, I’m just gonna go,” she said.
I begged her to stay. It took a couple of minutes to get her out of the clown suit.