A Love Letter to My Mesopotamian Momma

Look, baby, you know I love you. Your dark hair and swarthy good looks called out to me—I wanted you in the worst way, which is the best way I want things. When I want something, I take it, and I slap it around and punch it and go to town, you know what I mean? And I wanted you, baby. You. It was always you.

I swept you off your feet, and then dropped you, but I picked you up again, and then dropped you once more…but darn it, I just kept on picking you up. It was all good, at first. I slapped your thighs and punched your stomach and gained the golden hall without so much as a titty-tickle and wham! came off like Speed Racer—it was fast and yummy and the crowds cheered and it was good! Damn good. Get the bleach out and clean the towels good.

And remember when I found your daddy and got his buddies to fuck his ass up something fierce so you and I could be together! From then out it was just you and me and a future filled with flying carpets and easy money and then…I went soft. I’ll admit it. I went soft like a White House reporter full of salt peter and Shasta Cola. Yeah, that soft.

And could you believe it, horror of horrors, my family wanted me to leave you! ???? To hell with them, I said. I’m staying. But my firmness continued to diminish and my balls started to dry out and my knees were getting a little wobbly. And my tongue, well, I can tell you it was getting pretty darn raw. But I didn’t let those unfortunate truths deter my ardor. I ain’t no Johnny Rape Lately—no, sir! Call me crazy, I decided to increase my love by surging deeper inside of you, surging and surging until you screamed with pleasure—you were mine again! I couldn’t feel you anymore, but I knew I was in there somewhere, by golly!

And yet, my love once more spent, I started to slip out again…this is a problem that many lovers my age face. I turned two hundred and thirty-one last July, thank you very much. I tried visualizing having sex with your neighbor as a way of raising old glory but it wasn’t enough to make wood, and my damn family kept asking me to come home—to withdraw and return to the fold. Part of me died inside of you. Part of me died inside of you every day for over four and a half years. Slipping out was just one more way of withdrawing (but you and I know better, don’t we?) and winners don’t withdraw, they stick around until breakfast and then what’s for lunch? and then forever and forever, because that’s what winners do. Winners have to be chased out by bank creditors and crying women and children by court-fucking-order.

To be fair, not all the family wanted me to come home. Some wanted me to stay in you forever. Nevermind the chafing they said. Nevermind the cost. Hell, you’d think it was their dick in there. I always wondered about that part of the family. Hanging around in public restrooms, addicted to pain pills, afraid of brown people. But they kept me going anyway. It was like they were living through my dick inside of you—my limp, spent dick in a daily bath of blood. And then I started to slip out for like the hundreth time. I felt bad. And sloppy.

But it wasn’t my fault, not really. How was I supposed to stay attracted to you while you stained the sheets with a seemingly endless river of blood? You just kept leaking all over the place (the world’s longest menstrual cycle) and frankly I lost my taste for your booty. But did I leave? NO. Did I withdraw? NO. Did I slip out? A little, as per usual…you always knew I wasn’t going far, and that you and I would stay embraced for many more than a thousand and one nights. We will be together until once more my vascular system dialates enough for my hummer to harden.

Okay, maybe it isn’t love. Maybe it’s something deeper than that. Maybe it’s…oh, for crying out loud, would it kill you to change the sheets? Sheesh.

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