Hustling
She is ten and obsessed with porn. Been around it her whole life. Her uncle, who still lives with her grandmother, has stacks of it under his bed. And he wallpapers the back of his many fish tanks with centerfolds. In the summer, when school is out, she stays at her grandmother’s house while her parents go to work. And every day, when her grandmother falls asleep after lunch in front of the TV, she sneaks into her uncle’s room, looks at his magazines, feeds his fish, prays for big, round boobs when she grows up. Recently, she’s discovered that Hustlers have stories at the back of each issue; and stories are better than photos. They make her toes curl. What she wouldn’t do for a Hustler of her own, one she could read behind her locked bedroom door, in the middle of the night. Instead of skimming, she could take her time, let the words do what they want. She knows the corner drugstore sells Hustlers. They’re kept on the top shelf in the magazine aisle, behind a piece of black plastic so kids can’t see the cover. One day, she borrows her brother’s Member’s Only jacket and slides a rolled-up Hustler down one sleeve. In her other hand, she holds a dollar and a pack of Wild Cherry Lifesavers. But the shopkeeper, who looks like her grandfather, won’t ring up the candy; he just stares at her like she’s his granddaughter or something. Finally, he extends his hand, and she pulls the magazine out. The end that was shoved in her armpit is wavy with perspiration. “Don’t you ever come in here again, or I’ll tell your parents,” he whisper-scolds with enough shame for the both of them.
So Distracting
Sometimes we’ll have a really challenging yoga class, and I like to listen to the people around me panting, groaning, moaning. I always wonder if they make those same noises when someone is fucking them. I know that’s weird. One time, I even covered up the screen of my phone with my towel and recorded a video during a particularly noisy class. I wanted to listen to it later. At home. When I was alone.
Invasive
The dictionary defines intercourse as a waterway in Florida. Something full of crocodiles and piranhas. Where, if you dip your toes into the water, they’d come out as wrinkly, empty skin sacs, all the flesh consumed.
But really, intercourse is just a metaphor for going to the dentist, the reclined chair a mattress, your mouth wide open like legs. And his tools are in your mouth, drilling, suctioning the saliva out so you can control your gag reflex, so you won’t feel the need to swallow until he’s done.
