Lost My Virginity in the Summer Of ’78


Nineteen and thin, a sexual beast, her skin was a feast of coffee-mocha brown; the poor boy was lean and not quite sixteen as she spun his head around. It was an awkward approach, but she sparked-up a roach as they revved-up her burgundy car—drove around for a while, too nervous to smile, as the tape-deck played Hendrix guitar. Parked by the lake, it was no mistake when she killed-off her front headlight beams. It was late at night but he’d put up no fight, as she slowly unbuttoned her jeans. The leaves rustling in trees, mixed with their love moans on the breeze, seemed to echo in nearby streams. ~ Poet Stoker


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