She, a sweet bride
Long before she got fried
He had much pride
Now his body lies dried
The graves so very wide
But there no one had cried
So, M ‘n Mrs Hyde
Mourn Bonnie and Clyde

Mista, what do you think of this little rhyme I made up just now, it didn’t even take me a minute, I am so fucking good with words and such. Now get over here, and kiss me, right here on my neck … mmmm … yes … last night, oh yes, you know, I had this dream that I was Bonnie and you were … oh … you were Clyde … wait, wait … listen to me … mmmm … wait … and the police had shot me. Everywhere I looked, there were bullets in my body and blood was coming out, and you had taken me into your arms, and you kissed my every wound, in the middle of that madness, you were getting shot too, but you didn’t give a damn. There were people looking, the police were killing us, but nothing fazed you … inside the car, you took off my shirt, then my skirt, and you said :

“Bonnie, a person should get shot wherever they want to be kissed.”

“You mean wherever they want to be fucked?”

And then we both laughed so much.

My Bonnie, if you knew how much I love your tiny ass. When I see you in your slinky black dress, the cigarette in one hand, one foot on the bumper, your little feet, your waist wasp,.. I want to feel your ribs under your breasts, to lick your skin from the bottom up, to know each of your veins, your scars, to kiss you everywhere my eyes can see (and beyond). I want to lift you, turn you, fuck you as much as possible. God, I want to fuck you like crazy, wildly, without delay. I don’t care about the Washington Post photographer taking pictures of us. I don’t care about anybody. I want to bite your little breasts, bite your lips, all your lips, mmmmm… and melt in you. Then, I want my hot sperm to flow between your thighs when you will put your dress on, and kill cops.

Balls. Holes. God! You don’t have enough holes to please me, so much do I want to fuck you… I want to have the taste of your blood in my mouth, my Bonnie, on my dick, on my hands, everywhere.

When cops will shoot us like balloons at the Atlantic City fun fair, we will be fucking like pigs, my Bonnie. And we’ll see if they prevent me from exploding in you. And you wet as ever. Fucking god.

You know, when death is so near, one has to spend days just fucking … you’ve made me scream with pleasure so many times, you’ve fucked me so much I can barely walk : on the bed, on the table, in the kitchen, in the tub … yes … I really loved riding you in the tub last night, your hands pressing my breasts, your saliva on my nipple, ha, how much you love sucking on that tiny red spot, and your hard dick – god, I love it – ready to burst any moment inside my dripping wet pussy …

But don’t you know that we will die soon, everyone looks for us … the end will arrive so soon, so suddenly, quietly we will find the police pointing guns at us outside a Ford V8, there will be 130 rounds of bullets, that will be our end, Clyde … it’s not so far, and yet you waste time in talking … god, Clyde … unzip already, don’t you know your Bonnie wants to lick you from bottom to tip, suck you, take all of you inside my mouth, until you can’t take it anymore, until you explode, until I can taste you, god, there is always so much.

In the court, Clyde, if they make me swear on the Bible, I will. With the holy book in my hand, I will really tell them the truth: I like your cum more than chocolate.

They have an eye on your corpse, my Bonnie, and first of all this son-of-a-bitch Frank Hamer. I must say that if I had not been this second body lying next to yours in the morgue in Dallas, I might well still have a shot. Even dead, you are still beautiful, desirable.

They have not even put cloth on you. They believe that it is their bullets that tore your dress, but these were my teeth and hands. They believe it is their bullets that killed you, but these are my cock strokes in the Ford. Too much fuck. Bullets whistled over our heads, you liked it. Noise, danger, fear, timely release. You just raised your dress, usually, you opened your bodice and in five minutes it was done.

That day you felt that it would be the end. You wanted to die where you were caught. You took my revolver, a semiautomatic Colt Government 1911, and you have put it without any hesitation in your wet pussy. And you shot, baby. Three fucking shots. A trickle of blood and smoke came out – smocky-bloody-pussy, ha! -, and you came while exhaling. Damn, how crazy you were.

The memory of my death is hazy, you know. I don’t quite remember what happened exactly, but I think this was it. I am not sure.

That bastard Hamer, when you went out of the room, grabbed me from behind, took off my panties, and slapped by bare ass. He then fucking handed me a revolver and said that if he can watch me come, then he’d let us go. I begged him, I told him, but then he said that he gonna kill us … so I had to do it, Clyde, you know I didn’t want to, I fucking wanted to bash his face, but I put the revolver inside myself– in and out, in and out – as that sewer rat watched.

When I finally finished, Clyde, the barrel of the revolver was still wet from my inside, when that motherfucker Hamer picked it up and, from the window, shot you dead.

Clyde, I miss the night you’d tied me to the bed and had your way with me. We were so alive.
In my autopsy report, you know what the coroner wrote?

Her heart just suddenly stopped beating.

You know, my love, I often think of our naked bodies. Especially yours.

At this very strange moment when two beings are close to one another, almost touch, and only one desire tapping them: kiss. Everything conspires to this fusion of bodies, you know. The air itself conspires: it is heavy, heavy, so heavy that the clothes are too much. I already see you as if you were naked, you are dressed only in transparency. My desire is in my eyes (but not only). At this moment, you see, my hands’ desire is starting to undo the buttons of your shirt. My mouth only dreamed of kissing the skin of your belly. And after?

But you are dead, embalmed, in your coffin, my love. They put you in a blue dress with a  Sacramento whore makeup. I do not even see your arms – I think they were too messed up to be sewn… Half ended up in the dogs mouth -.

Do you believe that souls can make love? I think so. I want you too much not to believe it, my love.

My love, they misunderstand. I know that you kill because you want to give them another life. I know why you shoot, why you pull the trigger : you end their unhappy existence that they’re too scared to end themselves. You are the true messiah, my love. Frank Hamer doesn’t understand. I understand.

I’ve looked into your soul, Clyde, during the countless hours that I have seen you naked, without anything to hide behind. That night, as you lay under me, and I massaged, stroked you so slowly with my bare fingers and palm, where was it, my love, death has made me forget many things, couldn’t we hear the divine wisdom of St. Sofia somewhere far in the background, as you experienced your own body through me, and when you finally entered me – each time, you wanted to enter me, my love, now I know: nowhere else in the world could you feel your own soul except when you were inside me. My love, in my body, I wanted you to take root.

Only I understand your soul. Your hands have unclothed me innumerable times, your tongue has tasted every centimeter of my skin, you have been inside my deepest corners, but when they ask me about my sins at the gates of heaven, I can say: no evil has ever touched me.

…

M & Mrs Hyde are the two tantric and trashy sides of a forgotten soul, with frequent Jungian mood, tiny red spot obsession, Bombay Sapphire passion, frequent insomnia, recurrent headaches, taste for Darjeeling, and fascination for words. Always travelling from East to West, and inversely.