The Wonder Year Return

I love the women and men who want to care of me. They see my pretty little face, my charming little smile, and hear the big 50 cent words coming out of this young buck's mouth and they think, 'I want to save this precious child; rescue him from the horrible path he's taken.' What they mean is save me for themselves so no one else will drink of my nectar. Salvation is funny that way; it's selfish and it doesn't want to share, so it smothers with money, and awful tender kisses, and 'love' until you're too weak or confused or stupid to runway. They hold me tight, wrap me with kisses, and take me into their homes and I let them keep me for a little while- well as long as they can- for as long as I can bear their touch and then I run away, back to my lonely bed reaking of their smell- the smell that never comes out. It's a terrible thing, being loved by someone you can't love, someone who mistakes lust for love. You can never wash away the stench. No matter how hard you scrub it is always with you. The only think one can do is replace that smell with another. So you go out and smile and look deep into another man or woman's winking eye and you let them into you for a little while or until you can forget what it is to reek of that person sweat, and then you run away back to your bed again reeking of the stench that comes with a thousand sweaty kisses. I wonder how I smell now.