This is a monologue from a two-hander I wrote called Pacific. It’s a mother and daughter piece. Awww. Carla is talking to her mom here.

I wrote pornography.  I wrote about this lady reporter, traveling the country to cover breaking stories.  Her car broke down on a dark stormy night by the side of the road in some deserted place.  She gets out of the car, checks under the hood.  She’s a woman who knows her way around an engine, she can really take care of herself.  As she checks the engine the rain pours down on her, long strands of chestnut brown hair matted against her face, her shirt molded wet around her plump breasts, her woven silk skirt clinging to her thighs, revealing her panty line.

A truck pulls up, one of those big semi’s.  The door swings wide and a smooth back woods voice slips out of the cab and up her skirt.  She climbs into the cab and with no words exchanged they fall onto each other.  He embraces her like a bear, plunging himself into her mouth, her ass, her cunt.  Over and over.  And she likes it.  She’s smiling, she’s screaming, and suddenly they’re out in the rain, but his body keeps her warm and he sucks on every part of her until he’s ready to explode again, this big bear.

In eighth grade.

They kept asking me why.  Dad and Karen at the dining room table.  At dinner.  Angel hair pasta with cheese and broccoli.  What made you write this?  I don’t know.  What made you think of this?  I just thought of it.  Did your mother tell you about these things?

I didn’t have the nerve to say I read about it in Dad’s Esquire magazine.  The story of a burly bear man in Esquire magazine.  Dad with his six foot slammed my chair back.  My head against the sliding glass doors and darkness, they heard the crash, behind me a crack.  They told me to clear the dinner dishes.  Putting away the milk and butter Dad came over to me and asked again.  I just thought of it.  He hit me when I said it and I fell.  Karen blocked the shots, taking his foot in her side, her back, a buffer.  Carried me to the bathroom under fire.  Door locked, head back to stop the bleeding.  Did he hit you with his hand or with his fist?  With his fist.  Dad pounding.

Did he hit you with his hand or with his fist?  With his fist.  Dad pounding.

Did he hit you with his hand or with his fist?  With his fist.  Dad’s footsteps recede.  We stayed in there until the car drove away.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s