His name was Kettle, and he was pretty like a girl when I first see’d him. Heared him before that. Heared him playin in the street, his singin driftin in through my open window. And I was lyin in my bed, not a stitch coverin me and my hands touchin my tits so that him singin to me was somethin indecent. ‘Course he didn’t know I was listenin or that I was without my clothes.
He’d a voice that was soft and sweet. It was like feathers brushin over my nipples and I knew at once that I wanted this man to be kissin me one day and I leapt from the bed and quick to the window. And like I said, he was pretty as a girl and he looked up at me and smiled. Whole damned street smiled, if I’m to tell the truth, and it was then I felt naked.
He was waitin for me outside. Most of the mornin he waited and every now and then he’d hang another song on the air and his singin was like he was callin me to him. Like those sirens of old or mermaids pullin sailors in boats to black rocks. I dressed and did my hair and my eyes and I kept lookin to see if he was still there, which he was.
Then I stepped out and he gave me his name and he said I was surely an angel and he asked for my name. Kettle walked behind me all the way into town and he kept singin and playin his guitar and people in the street turned to look and they saw me. That was his intention he said afterwards. Someone that pretty should be seen, he said. Even his speakin words were soft and sweet.
He bought me a drink after work and he walked me home afterwards and he kissed me and he put his hand under my blouse, and not like feathers, but somethin rough and sharp it was – still, it took my breath away all the same. And Kettle came upstairs and he was in too much of a hurry and I lost a button on my skirt and he tore my stockings so they never could be worn again.
He stayed for a week. He said he was new in town and he didn’t have no place else to go. He woke me with a song each mornin and we fucked again before I went to work. He was there when I returned and he’d drunk all the milk and written two new songs, all the words scribbled onto the wall beside my bed with crossins out and changes. And he said I was his muse and we fucked again.
A week Kettle stayed and then he fucked off.
Ain’t seen him since, and it’s been more than a month. There’s a new heaviness to my tits, like the udders of a cow when it’s near to milkin time, and they’re sensitive to the touch, more than before; and there’s a thickness comin to my waist and I am sick some mornins, and I just know.
And so I don’t trust musicians, see, with their sweet and their soft and their pretty words spoilin my wallpaper and their hands clean as a girl’s and under my clothes and fuckin with everythin. No, I don’t trust ‘em and I won’t never again.
Patricia Ann McNair 
I don’t trust musicians. Never will. Not now.
His name was Kettle, and he was pretty like a girl when I first see’d him. Heared him before that. Heared him playin in the street, his singin driftin in through my open window. And I was lyin in my bed, not a stitch coverin me and my hands touchin my tits so that him singin to me was somethin indecent. ‘Course he didn’t know I was listenin or that I was without my clothes.
He’d a voice that was soft and sweet. It was like feathers brushin over my nipples and I knew at once that I wanted this man to be kissin me one day and I leapt from the bed and quick to the window. And like I said, he was pretty as a girl and he looked up at me and smiled. Whole damned street smiled, if I’m to tell the truth, and it was then I felt naked.
He was waitin for me outside. Most of the mornin he waited and every now and then he’d hang another song on the air and his singin was like he was callin me to him. Like those sirens of old or mermaids pullin sailors in boats to black rocks. I dressed and did my hair and my eyes and I kept lookin to see if he was still there, which he was.
Then I stepped out and he gave me his name and he said I was surely an angel and he asked for my name. Kettle walked behind me all the way into town and he kept singin and playin his guitar and people in the street turned to look and they saw me. That was his intention he said afterwards. Someone that pretty should be seen, he said. Even his speakin words were soft and sweet.
He bought me a drink after work and he walked me home afterwards and he kissed me and he put his hand under my blouse, and not like feathers, but somethin rough and sharp it was – still, it took my breath away all the same. And Kettle came upstairs and he was in too much of a hurry and I lost a button on my skirt and he tore my stockings so they never could be worn again.
He stayed for a week. He said he was new in town and he didn’t have no place else to go. He woke me with a song each mornin and we fucked again before I went to work. He was there when I returned and he’d drunk all the milk and written two new songs, all the words scribbled onto the wall beside my bed with crossins out and changes. And he said I was his muse and we fucked again.
A week Kettle stayed and then he fucked off.
Ain’t seen him since, and it’s been more than a month. There’s a new heaviness to my tits, like the udders of a cow when it’s near to milkin time, and they’re sensitive to the touch, more than before; and there’s a thickness comin to my waist and I am sick some mornins, and I just know.
And so I don’t trust musicians, see, with their sweet and their soft and their pretty words spoilin my wallpaper and their hands clean as a girl’s and under my clothes and fuckin with everythin. No, I don’t trust ‘em and I won’t never again.