micro memoir | The Mark of a German Boy

J is a proper European that you don’t see very often anymore, that you’d expect walk out of a medieval mansion. He has a collared shirt under a mud-colored sweater, soft hands that never did a day’s work, a Cambridge education that ended with transporting thirty kilos of books back to Germany, and an air of reservation that they call “good manners.” As the night grows dark, we move below the surface of intellectual conversations to the depths of physical contact. J kisses in the exact opposite manner: with absolutely no reservation or modesty, full of aggression and domination. He pins down, thrusts, and bites. “It’s painful,” I say. “Sorry, old habits,” He says, then continues. The next morning, I look in the mirror and see a bruise on my underlip — the mark he left on a territory that was never his. That’s one European man that hasn’t changed much since the 16th century.

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An artist in, of, for, at life. My very life is my performance art. I write short and sweet (and savory) stories and poems in this grand performance ( •◡•) ♪

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ooaagarden

ooaagarden

An artist in, of, for, at life. My very life is my performance art. I write short and sweet (and savory) stories and poems in this grand performance ( •◡•) ♪

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