Kona Morris was the co-founder and editor-in-chief of Fast Forward Press, a publication devoted to flash fiction, as well as the founder and writer of the satirical comic book company Godless Comics. She has been featured as a writer and editor at literary events and conferences across the country, and her stories and prose poems have appeared in a variety of publications, including Connotation Press, (b)OINK Magazine, Santa Fe Literary Review, Flâneur Foundry, Bombay Gin, Monkey Puzzle, and many others. Kona currently helps to run the F-Bomb Flash Fiction Reading Series in Denver, where she lives and teaches letter regurgitation to college students.
You knew just what you were doing back in 1989 when you took your maniacal babyfaced J.D. and rode his dark sunglasses and cackling smile into the chasm of my nine-year-old heart. You filled me up with cherry slushie and jammed your motorcycle homicide way down the straw, again and again, until I spewed drano all over my television. You took a hold of my virginity and banged it against gagging jocks with hair clips and high school petition letters. Then you lit my first cigarette with eyes like slices of overturned moon pie and licked me full of anarchy.
In 1990 you entered me again, this time a brown-eyed airwave aggressor, uninvited and tugging on your own hairy cockring. When you jizzed ectoplasmic cum all over Arizona, you tore a hole in my guts the size of a baby’s arm and whispered angry erections while Henry Rollins, Leonard Cohen, and Black Francis played in the background. You undressed me and turned me into your own personal eat-me beat-me girl addicted to mysterious boys with tongues that taste like Blackjack gum. I would have gone to jail for you a thousand times while spitting into the faces of fascist pig principals.
Goddamnit, Christian Slater! Then, later in 1990, I asked for a poster of you for Xmas but it was a bittersweet bomb to find the glossy thick cardboard cut-out wasn’t my crazed black leather boy, but rather you as an intolerant bastard. Ashamed of your cruelty to Ritchie Valens in the desert, I denied my own ethics to flick a ten-year-old bean to your shit grinning racist cowboy squint glaring out from the wall over my bed.
In 1991 you only gave me a ten-minute hint to hold onto. Singing limericks across a medieval river with a jesus dripping arrow through your palm. But I still got down on my knees to lick Bryan Adams’ foreskin for you, didn’t I?
In 1992 I don’t remember anything but a blatant excuse to see you dance with your shirt off, jump on a bed, and imagine gliding my hand from your cocky widow’s peak to the hard tip of your happy trail. Naked blue jeans and plotless sex playing a cop in San Francisco.
Then, in 1993, you double-teamed me good. Heartbreak and eye-patch surprises seeped into my secret Christian Slater masturbation malt. First your baboon heart made me weep like a thirteen-year-old hopped up on hormones, and then I started watching kung-fu and smoking pot just to become your Alabama Worley. Your shy-diner questions making my lips drip long strings of bathtub pleasure. I would have married you in less than a day and tattooed you onto more than just my belly if you fucked me in a phone booth while the hot roadtrip sun sang Elvis in our ears.
And then, somewhere around a bed full of red petaled cheese in 1996, you insulted me or maybe I was just old enough to not want to be dick-slapped with dead flowered drama, so I got in my car and drove away, scarred by your retired rage, but ready to kill the world or fuck it trying, just like you taught me.
And I haven’t stopped since.
Yes, Christian Slater. You were my first true horny flame of romance, and I hold you responsible for everything.