a night, almost sixty-seven years ago now, when i first made love to your father, senor jabbajohnl.
the rain poured down onto the window of the 83 chevy trans am we drove to and from the salt mines to our quarters in the gulag. we had spent the past thirty hours or so in the dark of the siberian mines, digging out salt for kruschev's personal french fry chef. to pass the time, we had often pretended one of us was katie holmes, though we had never made it beyond third base.
the midnight sunlight (since this was siberia, and, as yakov smirnoff taught us, everything is backward there) glimmered in his golden locks, making him look quite a bit like a woolly mammoth. i could not deny my passion any longer. i kissed his knuckles, and, before i knew what had happened, my seed dripped down his thighs from his ass much like john f kennedy's jizz once dripped from marilyn monroe's chacha.
it was a beautiful night, a night like no other. sure, he would soon meet your mother at a protest against totalitarian bagels, but, for that one evening, as we held our naked bodies together, he was mine. he had been absolutely straight prior to our incarceration in the salt mines, but our love had turned him gay. super gay, even. super gay with a cape and everything. he marched in gay pride parades as "assfaggotfuckman" and even fought crime for a while in detroit, personally arresting jerry springer no less than forty times.
ask him, if you would, if he still thinks of the love we shared, that love that was destined to run dry even as we noticed we had run out of caffeine free diet coke.