Delivering Happiness - Camilla Basham

His body was toned, tanned, his eyes and mouth more perfect than I had even imagined in the flattering light of the bar. He removed his simple white wife beater and moved towards me fisting the skirt of my dress and tugging it slowly upward, our eyes never breaking contact except for the moment the fabric brushed over my face, my breath suddenly smothered in cotton, I inhaled deeply, arms over head, until I was relieved of my dress and presented once again with his green eyes. His lips immediately devoured mine while one hand firmly braced the back of my head rendering me unable to escape his kiss, the other landed on the curve of my back and slid down past the lace waistband of my panties.

Without saying a word he threw me on his futon and I watched the world unfold through the “v” of my thighs: his thick black hair, his strong hands resting on the plain of my bare stomach, his upper back depicting glow in the dark Jesus, rising and falling, behind him a closed black out shade flapping in the breeze, the smell of honeysuckle, church bells in the distance ringing out the hour. And for some reason, one I can not begin to explain, in the blurred vision of my mind’s eye I saw Sister Claire standing behind him swathed in her heavy black habit, arms crossed, the every present rosary dangling from arthritic fingers, the glass eye, the scowl that ran chills up my already trembling thighs, her head shaking slowly back and forth with disdain. Whether it was the booze, or the sun playing tricks on me I can’t say, but through my hazy eyes somewhere over glowing Jesus’ humping motions and hot beast’s ass, Sister Claire turned into my dying mother.

With little regard for his wellbeing, I grabbed a clump of hot beast’s hair and jerked him up and away from me while slamming my thighs together. From the look on his face, that didn’t happen much.

I rolled out from under him and landed on my crumpled dress, pulled it on with the same urgency one might use to try and lift a car off of a crushed infant, and in my drunken state, this small task seemed almost as daunting.

He kneeled half naked on the foot of the bed, his green eyes glazed, his face glistening with my leftover excitement, the sun formed a sort of halo around his head and torso.

“What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry. My mother’s dying. I’m a terrible person. Sister Claire’s between my legs.” I turned, made my way to the door and rushed out.

“What’s between your legs? Maybe you should get that checked out.”

The door slammed shut behind me.

Convinced I could actually drive better drunk than sober, I headed back. It was coming back that I saw my hometown for the first time. Bringing the car to an impulsive halt, I descended and walked out to the splintered cypress pier while the steam from the lake rose and mingled with the late afternoon August heat. I looked up through the mist of heat and water and saw, to my astonishment, where I came from; to deny it, was to deny my very soul. The sleepy town commanded me to wake up and help heal my mother, my family, my past, my reality; the one I spent the best part of my years running from, because it was obvious I could never, in my mind, truly escape it, and in deference I did, in my psyche, reach out and offer up my hand. It was at that moment, and for the first time in my life, I granted Bumfucked, USA magnanimity.