A rough Bronx artist, my daily guest, danced awkwardly in her bright yellow thong. She always stumbled but I was enthralled. Nevertheless, I never crossed boundaries; she, my neighbor, simply over for coffee. Same bright yellow thong, never quite clean; I didn’t care about that. She had multi-colored tattoos and kind, inquisitive eyes.
After three months I courageously asked her. Incredulous, she shouted, “my thong? You wanna focus on my goddam thong? Ooh, fixated on it all this time? You a weirdo; you hankering to touch it?”
I worried about her contorted face. “NN-No…” I stammered, it’s just that..” I turned pale feeling nauseous. Should have kept my mouth shut.
She stood up, her hands on her hips. “you wanna lick it, my little pervo man?”
I trembled stammering,. “I jj-just wanted to know ww-what hh-happened to the other one?!!!
Sometimes one does not know what is unmentionable, until one attempts to ask.