When you sit on your Mama’s porch with your friend’s eight foot boa constrictor around your neck, think: “Long lines.” You are along the lines with your constrictor. You are the fifty pound smooth skinned muscle sliding along your arms and shoulders. You tense, he tenses. You freak out, you’re dead. He’s not a kitten, OK? He’s not a puppy. He’s not your Mama’s love “surprise.”
You have never been so cool in your whole life. The beer you drank may be helping, though it may be the second hand pot smoke, and no, you don’t do that. You’d never see the light of day, much less the boa, much less the guy who kisses you with his pot mouth. At night, he climbs up onto your preacher daddy’s roof and into your bedroom. He puts his finger on you and releases bird after pent-up bird. You blow him with your grateful, wet mouth as he lies on your technically virgin bed.
When you are in the grip of the snake it helps you have been sexual, so don’t ever let someone talk you out of it. Its muscular contractions are like serial multiple orgasms. Some men cannot handle it, are terrified, are strangled, are found dead in cages. Lucky women know what’s going on. So ride it out, dear sister, do not move. Ride it out and lengthen your sweet gorgeous lines.