All the Kinds

The only cock I’ve ever sucked sprang forth from a tangle of pubic hair the color and temperature of a forest fire. If you want to know how deep my obsession with redheads runs, that’s what I’ll tell you.

When Meg and I were still together, she would cling to my arm in the midst of that story and laugh harder than whoever I was telling it to, a fake laugh, the sort of ha-ha-ha tha tis all teeth and lipstick. In bed afterwards, she would worry that I’d leave her for a Natural, would tell me that was the reason for her faux-guffaw. And I would have to comfort her and tell her that was silly, then joke that there were no Naturals with her color anyway. I’d run my fingers through those ketchup-colored curls of hers, asked her who else’s hair could make me all kinds of hungry—all the kinds—and told her that she had nothing to fear.

That we broke up on the day after roots began to show—that, I maintain, was a total coincidence.

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