The dirty mattress rots in the moist soil. Every stain on the rain-logged blue monstrosity is from the same person. This thing exists behind a burned and abandoned McDonald’s which couldn’t compete with the Burger King sharing the same parking lot. I’ve seen the inside of the blackened building twice in my life; once when I was five eating McNuggets, and another time when I was fifteen, losing my virginity. It was Chelsie’s idea.
Chelsie said it will be the best feeling I will ever feel. She insisted that Brad Burgess is the finest lover this side of Southern Ohio. Rain or shine, the famous cocksmith will be inside, spray-painting his next masterpiece for our eyes only. Chelsie said Brad is older, but is still super cute in that Johnny Depp kind of way. I dressed in clothes I’ve long grown out of to make my body look bigger and better. Chelsie helped me wiggle into the tight t-shirt.
It was a Tuesday night, windy and rainy, and the air inside of the charcoaled McDonald’s was musty with ancient grease and newborn aerosol paint. Brad Burgess turned his head slowly towards me. Chelsie whispered something in his ear as if he were a mall Santa Claus. I pretended not to see this meeting of the minds. My eyes wandered from rude word to crude stick figure sprayed on the ripped wallpaper.
“Have a drink, baby girl,” said Brad.
“Can I go after her, Brad?” asked Chelsie.
“I’m a one-trick pony, sweetheart,” answered Brad.
The clear liquid burned my throat. The mattress was soggy and thin. I felt the stiff linoleum with each twitch from Brad. Chelsie left me alone with him. She called the cops, jealous.
I watched the golden arches fade away as the police drove me home.