Misty Over Milk Shakes

I was a simple picture of a person, just a gulp of a guy. She was not my first girl; she was my second. It was a Dairy Queen date, banana milkshakes, me tanking-up on her foggy eyes, imagining her naked muggy female parts. Then that she abruptly slammed her wet wriggling mind down on to the plastic tabletop. A floppy thing it was, with no kapok or bitty bones. Her fishiness edged closer to me as if wanting to be fed. I fled. That night I dreamed of her bubbly wet kisses flying like manta rays above the rooftops of our watery town seeking out soggy young men to puddle with.