Inside The Gazebo

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Location: Central Michigan, United States

Spent a long career making lots of money for other people. Now it's my turn. _____________________________ Email:

Sunday, June 10, 2007


They gang-raped and made her pregnant at the just blossoming age of fifteen. There were four of them. The first one took her virginity, one of them fertilized her. And she has never known their names.

But that was sixteen years; a husband still; and three more children ago.

She brush-paints “16” in large pink numbers on both sides, the trunk, the roof and the hood of her “fire-car”---the junk car she drives each year in the demolition derby at the county fair. Sixteen was the tender year of her age when her first child suckled at her breasts.

Last year she finished third in the main event of the Derby. The year before, she crashed early. This year she intends to win.

When the demolition derby and summer have come and gone, when it becomes fall and the hunting season, you will find her out of bed well before dawn and sitting high in a tree watching intently for the perfect bow and arrow shot at the elusive white-tailed deer. During gun season, which comes later, and often with brutal cold, you will find her burrowed into the ground-blind she constructed from dead tree limbs, rotted stumps, wilted ferns and bows of pine. She will be in the woods with her gun, while her husband will be at home with the remote control and waiting for his “game” on TV. “Fuck that!” she says.

But on this morning, cascades of raven black flow over her shoulders and fall gently toward her narrow waist. Her hair, soft as silk, reflects a tint of blue in the summer sun.

Earth’s darkest browns color her eyes. A sprinkle of gold and a fleck of green add to their sparkle. Like burning coals of subtle passion, they sear their brand on unaware hearts.

Lips painted with nature’s own gloss form the warm seductive smiles that will spawn tonight’s dreams of many a man’s restless sleep. Her radiant beauty and confident manner will hurl their imaginations to lusty places.

The twin globes of her firm breasts ride high and proud below her slender neck. Sheltered by the mere fabric of her blouse, her nipples beckon---like cherries wild and red---and so many men long for a taste.

Round taut buttocks beg for a good man’s best attentions. Her sculptured legs might hold him there between them, a willing captive forever.

But she takes no such prisoners.

The men who eat at the small diner call her Candy. We call her Candy, because she is sweet to our hearts.