Heavily tattooed 19 year old Rhiannon (thanks Fleetwood Mac loving mum and dad) discovered this Wagnerian piece of non sequitur longing in one of her older cousin's CD collections, and it has annoyingly taken up residence in her memory: like the name of a tropical fish she has no interest in, or the Mohs scale of hardness rating of granite.
And has floated to the surface as an unexpected consequence of her recent breakup with Milean; aka, The Cooch, a similarly inked lad of the same age, who is as thin as a lamb carcass hanging in a butcher's window.
They discovered their mutual amorous attraction at her friend Sarah's party, deep in the K-hole, which, for the uninitiated, in a state of body and mind bought on by imbibing horse tranquilizes.
And celebrated their new found love by getting their genitals pierced. Leading to the sticky situation of his cock ring becoming enmeshed in her labial jewelry...the disentanglement of which was rather like the delicate operation of removing surgical objects from an oyster.
The Cooch was all about skateboarding, and getting wasted, and banana sandwiches, and wearing his jeans so low that his boxers puffed above them like a Shakespearean ruffle. On his stomach was an intricately inked image of a skeleton holding 2 hot dogs, with the words Be Reel in a copperplate font above them in a banner. How could she not love this man!
But he was reticent when it came to commitment. Reckoning that 'bitchez is hella' but that no one was going to 'slow his jam'. When she inquired what this actual 'jam' entailed, he responded by breaking a jar of peanut butter with his head, and spray painting Madd Stylz on the fridge: which was unfortunate, as all this occurred in her parent's house, and it was a new fridge.
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