7 layers of a threesome by Kristin Garth

Punk Noir Magazine

Taco Bell is your last bastion of beach 

lust then bridge three breach the staid mainland.

Last peeks of a spread leg Molly backseat

beseeched peep show, meek passenger’s discrete demands  

of what to do with your hands, turned staring 

at you straight in dilated eyes.  One who drives

decries it all, “Is she doing to again?” Bring 

offending digits to your lips and lick.  Spy 

aquamarine surly stare in rearview 

mirror. Fear more rebuke when he pulls in

the parking lot, fight with door because you

implore “let me check it out.” Finger swollen 

from rubbing glass ring up/down until skin breaks,

he takes it away; says you should at least eat beans. 

 

Inside his Impala, he has little 

patience for you, driver with only a

skewed rectangular rearview — spilled skittles, 

pristine vintage interior, wet thighs splayed.

He holds in a lot he doesn’t say.  Crazed 

like a daddy, pulls down your dress, you enter 

Taco Bell rolling.  He says you best behave —

to both of you, passenger daddy, center

of booth.  You break nachos like a family,

two lanky young daddies who allow you to 

be naturalistic, some practicalities

One sets you free.  One tells you what to do.

One counts each bite you take of seasoned rice. 

One knows how much you cum & still thinks you’re nice. 

 

You’ve known the driver for quite a while.  He

makes you sit in his backseat, chauffeured you 

in style to Chinese dinners, erupting 

volcanic drinks.  Lets lovesick roommate view 

you fucked on a kitchen sink.  You have your doubts

though he thinks it’s fine.  Awake to her 

nude in your bed too many times without 

invitation, makes you remember 

those times in your childhood that you do 

lines to forget.  Explain it all to dyed black

back of head in a Taco Bell drive through —

seven layer burrito, panic attack 

though he keeps the former up front with him,

no lettuce in this car, if you want to stay friends.

 

The cheese he needs is procured in a blend —

cocaine proliferation, plus, part time, 

pretends alone in a strip mall to vend 

t-shirts, small plastic power trucks with rhymes 

on the utility company’s name 

for twenty bucks.  Nobody wants either.

No one comes in.  It sounds like a game 

when it’s mentioned over his fajita 

burrito — come to work with me.  Fuck in 

film booths to corporate movies about 

electricity.  No one wants this to end.

Three days ago lured to your hotel hideout,

the passenger we only knew by name.

Nobody knows the rules to this game —

 

after the hotel where you fled the jealous 

roommate (the one you knew should not be

allowed to participate — even as zealous 

voyeur) You suggested it demurely 

in a Taco Bell drive thru, to a driver 

who does what he wants with you. Does not

reside with a smitten compulsive liar,

tomato red cheeked saucy as fire debutant

who sought you out after seeing you nude 

in art installations then discreetly 

pursued.  Offers a room with a view 

in a creative house.  Sublet, no lease,

was working out until you say you won’t play

and then you answer an attorney’s call one day —

 

because she didn’t pay rent since you moved in.

Collected from you.  According to him, you 

have two weeks before eviction begins. 

Pack up some suitcases.  Call chauffeur dude

for Taco Bell then hotel —  but after, 

across the yard, to her, shout  — “I’m having 

a three way — and I’m moving out.” Matters

of money, manor soon disappearing 

like guacamole then pill you swallow.

Check out before you check in.  Slip out of 

your babydoll dress.  Phone mutual callow 

friend at the punk rock bar where you all love 

to be.  Door girl yells to him your hotel room.

More horny than homeless, hope he arrives soon.

 

Denuded your home also worries and clothes, 

wait for a boy you both hardly know.  Wrap 

goosebumped flesh in sour cream sheets.  Close 

your eyes.  Count each heartbeat until the tap 

of fingers on a cored wood door makes a 

percussive rhythm you feel before spreading 

you wide beside your chauffeur friend.  They 

ride you until you don’t have to pretend 

to have human concerns, shelter or cash — 

just animal, unleashed, used, put in a bath 

dreading checkout time when you’re starting to crash. 

let’s fuck in the sand, driver says; you laugh

anything to keep reality out of reach.

Taco Bell is your last bastion of beach.