The familiar lighter flick, followed by the

sizzle of melting crack, caressed my ears

as I passed by the open doorway of an abandoned

apartment while heading to my own squatter’s

quarters and towing along Red, a strawberry

blond I’d known since truant school. I had a

fifty-piece numbing my jowls, as anticipation

started my stomach doing jittery flips, while

my phallus strained to be noticed.

Red and I entered my empty third floor,

two bedroom trysting spot, and I quickly

secured the door against nosy intruders.

Tonight, I was in no mood to share.

“Let me get a wake up, baby.”

Red coyly purred at me as we both

returned to man’s original state of dress.

I marveled at the slight upturn

of her heavy breasts, still defying gravity

after four and a half years of chasing

and tricking, while she ogled the fat rock,

slick from my saliva,

sitting on the bedside milk crate.

We then reclined on a queen-sized

mattress and box spring set sitting on

the bedroom floor covered with

a filthy sheet and comforter that taking hits

had left me little drive to wash.

The pungent scent of dope, weed, and sex

mixing with the sour aroma of ancient sweat,

set the ambiance.  Our Xanadu

wasn’t much to outsiders.

As dawn’s light began tapping on

the dirt covered windows, Red and I,

having long-exhausted our last push,

cuddled spoon-like as I nibbled on her ear and

entered her again.  Our slow, languid

movements were a sharp contrast to our earlier

cocaine-fueled, frenetic couplings.

Spent with exhaustion, I felt a laugh,

a blossoming of joy, tickling my soul

as Red and I still spooned.  And then,

just barely above a whisper, I heard her

murmur, “I love you,” and suddenly,

my eyes glimpsed beauty for the first time.

And I was happy, so happy, that I

whispered back, silently in response—

“Baby, I love you, too!”