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Rose

I guess I have waited 22 years- or at least all through high school and college- for a friend like Rose. Her affinity for my cum and her ability to climax from my voice was just a bonus, although I suppose all of my girl friends from now on will have to be lovers as well- the sexual tension surrounding me is too persuasive for prudes.

Rose was raised in West Philadelphia. Her mother came from a Black Foot Indian reserve and her father was a street rat who had the misfortune to fall out a window at 19, rendering him an invalid epileptic with no chance of income. His misfortune made him mean, and he would often berate Rose and her two siblings with wire hangers, until one day when Rose had enough. She screamed so loud that the block heard her, and screamed for so long that her blood rose and boiled, creating rings of fire spots on her skin. Her determined will scared her father, and he never hit her or her brother or sister again.

Circumstance pushed the family towards a perceived salvation: Jehovah’s Witnesses, who, are the preachy pushers of a philosophy centered around the cataclysmic end of the world. Rose would stand on the streets of Philadelphia handing out flyers as her mother warned pedestrians about their imminent fate. After years of quiet rebellion going largely ignored by abusive parents, Rose won an high school essay contest and was sent to Moldova- a tiny and isolated post-communist country with a shitty economy and backwards social regime, but to Rose the remnants of castles and primitive farming culture was the realization of the stories she had used to escape her life, and she was irrevocably changed. After the trip she cried for a week and then packed up her things and moved to the other side of Philadelphia. First she worked in a grocery store, then in retail, and then a few stints as a live-in nanny, and end of life helper. Until she got out of Philly as a falafel sales girl at festivals, which took her across the country and back, until she found some peace working on farms in Vermont.

In the decade that she worked odd jobs she had managed to save enough to travel through South America and teach herself the guitar and keyboard. She had read all of the classics with a particular affinity for the Russian romantics and the fantastical. Her speech was simple but her ideas extraordinary; not in the way that my academic friends could recite categorical facts and published theories, but instead with the wisdoms that hardships endow, and with the hope that belief cultivates.

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