Choke

Just before my father moved to Arizona
when I was twelve we walked the dog through the dusky seminary grass and around the playground and graveyard. He told me listen up: someday you'll be on a date with a boy in his car, maybe. The seat will be tilted back. His hands will be on your shoulders, creeping down beneathe the neckline of your blouse his tongue will push into your mouth and he'll reach in his back pocket; pull out a little square plastic packet and unwrap it. You take the rubber unfold it wrap it around his neck and pull hard. That was my father's answer to sex education-- I wasn't allowed to sit through it in school-- but he never told me what to do in a car with a girl when the seats are tilted back and the dark vynil upholstery is sticky slipping beneathe my short-skirted thighs and her bead-braids are scraping my face and anxious hands leave sweaty fingerprints over my arms, shoulders, neck and she breathes lipstick and discount perfume over my mouth and long red fingernails pick at the edges of my black nylon panties so I don't do anything at all.