Gratuitous Violence
Content Warning: Sexual Content & Violence
He says he’s never seen House of Wax,
so I bring my DVD to his basement bedroom,
and we melt under a navy blue comforter.
Twenty minutes in, he offers a foot massage,
as if I seem tense. Or maybe frightened.
As his thick fingers dig into my arch,
even though the scene is still a half hour away,
I think about Jared Padalecki’s Achilles tendon
and the clean slice that toppled him.
About the time he starts kissing my neck,
I picture Elisha Cuthbert’s super glued lips.
How, using mutilated fingers,
she pulled the glue apart with a stifled scream.
Which only made her mouth plump and red
and sexy for the rest of the movie.
He is fumbling with the hook of my bra, and
I remember a 45-second scene when the monster
is perfecting the point of a wax nipple
with a flame, a spoon, and a rough sponge.
Opera thrums softly in the background;
the monster is tender and exact with the corpse.
When his hands spread to my thighs
and between them, I think of Chad Michael Murray.
I think of the hunting knife jutting from his leg,
inserted by a handsome psychopath.
I do not think about Paris Hilton
or Robert Ri’chard, who are horny and dead.
Since I am feeling only one of those things.
When he enters me, I visualize the decapitation
of Jon Abrahams. How the monster
gripped his shoes and pulled.
How the body just slipped away
from the head.
