Kooky Lucy Frost (26)

   
   "Kooky Lucy Frost (26)"
   
   Kooky Lucy Frost decided to take the hint.  I'm back.  There would be no discharge on her face, or cruel and unusual engagement of sport-like intercourse; on the contrary, only a missionary love-make of non-lascivious lust, but two becoming one to produce the fruit of her broken womb.
   It was in Conor's room.  His parents were inside the house, yet this brought her comfort.  Not in a sick sense of getting caught to add to an exciting rendezvous of cool coitus, yet a shield of acquiesce, knowing his Irish, Catholic stock supported a new lineage; indeed, this was naked play in order to continue a line of two broken souls, allowing one of God's lit candles to exist, for the cruelty of life is a gift, if you see Christ next to you, suffering--ya gotta hang in there baby.
   The French kisses were not sloppy.  She noticed no boogers in Conor's nasal cavity, and he smelled like mint, and tasted like it too--fresh.  And while she experienced no euphoria, the sense of him there was pure union, and his discharge was as if not, but verily--she knew she was pregnant, and that life began before conception, ordered by something beyond our perception, this illusion of life, most merely using five senses, taking for granted the All-Creating Hand of God.  
   Conor rolled over and smiled sweetly.  She blew her dirty-blonde out of her face, painting him with a gregarious glare from a protracted glimpse by way of her forest-green eyes.