Barometric Pressure

"There is something very attractive about a person with deeply held beliefs. Isn't there? It takes great energy and stamina, but the fortitude to maintain strong viewpoints is burdensome," she said. "What do you think?"

"Kiss me," he quoted.

Barometric pressure, with its' twice-daily cycle caused by the tides, presses in on me. The rhythmic variation is strong and all at once blood runs down my legs. Tampax, flowers, perfume and bikinis, we are silly girls, we play hide and seek with our animal bodies, we dare not bear our breasts. Our mothers walked with rags between their legs, cupped heavy blood-soaked wads of muslin in their hands, held it under the cool running current and watched the river run red. Then they hung the rags to dry and used them again.

"Take all of me," he unzipped his pants.

So I took his heart. Ate it. Grew fat and sexy as I extolled the virtues of fellatio and sodomy. Liberated, I went under the knife, shrunk my female fat zones, fell out of favor with artists and intellectuals, declared myself a sexy bitch and embraced a mixture of creationism and evolution.

"You are beautiful," he whispered. "Let me take care of you."