It was the summer of 1959. you found George cracking his browned knuckles and rolling around in the thick grasses of the city park in mid spring and vowed to show him the good life. you've spent nearly every day together since then.

Your parents adored him and called him baby names like Georgie and sweetheart. they repelled any mention of his dropping out of school and swatted away the utterly prolific rumours of his performing in a rock n' roll band like they were horseflies against a sweaty newspaper. but you indulged him. you sucked in his vile vapours on the branches of skinny olive trees behind your house and blew the smoke into his face, austere, and excited, and beautiful. he hadn't known anybody as wealthy as you before.

He observed your puckered lips as they sucked golden honey from a limp paper straw and watched the same saccharine lips lather his hip bones with spit when you pleasured him on your daisy coloured sheets in the late afternoon. you sighed when the straw wilted between your sticky fingers and as his hips bucked against the warmth of your mouth. he never could afford the luxury of either; a jar of fresh honey or the gentle grazing of a lover's teeth against his tiny thighs. he, too, wilted beneath your charitable embrace.

"you've got ladyfingers..." His hands smoothed against yours and turned them around like a little book in his palms, smiling.