Depravity, NOW!

Respectfully, I masturbated three times today, which is a wild hero’s journey for someone who thought they were asexual not that long ago.

Today, I ordered a vibrator and an SPF from Amazon. They’ll arrive in the same box. I guess my forties are about really committing to new experiences.

The joke lands harder if you know I used to be militantly anti-SPF. I still can’t reliably make myself wear it—not the ones I’ve tried, anyway. Same with sex toys. I’d attempted both before, but could never quite convince myself either experience was worth the effort.

Granted, for an alarmingly long time, the only sex toy I owned was a glass dildo ribbed with little red hearts, gifted to me by a girl who is dead now.

Maybe—and I hate admitting this—grief simply wasn’t compatible with trying to get off using a strangely nouveau objet d’art. Also: ew, dildos.

Like, I’m not sure how I feel about penis generally, but here’s a facsimile, somehow harder, colder, and faintly sentimental. It was never functional in any meaningful sense from the start.

Maybe everything I’ve decided “isn’t for me” was actually just introduced to me under the worst possible conditions.

The thickest, greasiest SPF imaginable. The coldest, saddest cock.

Honestly, that theory explains a surprising amount of my life.

I started off on the wrong foot with almost everything. But I don’t know. It’s okay now. Or maybe not okay exactly—just more okay than it used to be. And sometimes “more okay” is a legitimate spiritual milestone.

Is any of this healthy? Hard to say.

I'm not seeing a therapist and don't want to. The last one suggested I have an affair, and the one before that convinced me to divorce my first husband. At this point, I’m afraid the next one will escalate accordingly.

Start an OnlyFans.

Send nudes.

Microdose ketamine in the desert.

I can't bear a prescription for Coachella. 

I struggle to complete my to-do list as it is.

But whatever. Whatever.

There’s a box coming to my house, and the reviews for both items were extremely high.

Who knows what the future holds beyond my next Amazon delivery?

The modern girl's self-care package.

More Obscene Than Anything

Sometimes life looks like porn on your phone
interrupted by a text message from Food City—

FOODCITY: Build your own Hot Dog Meal
for less than $10. May 13–19 only.

I’m trying.
I’m trying my best, Food City. Believe me.

Back to sweaty bodies moving like rent’s due—
mouths saying what loneliness pays to hear.
Fuck it. What the fuck, Food City?

$10 for hot dogs? Jesus Christ.
That’s more obscene than anything
else that’s come through my phone this week. 

Get a grip
and don’t text me back.

Good Morning, Girlhood.

Nose bled in the morning—
blood from both ends, human cannoli,
cherry-slick filling.
A girl through and through,
a red dessert,
saved for last.

Incorpoweighted

There is no greater feeling
than starting to doze off in a chair
to the tune of weekend afternoon basketball—
the dribbling, bouncing lullaby,
rhythmic back and forth from one court end
to the other. Halftime.

How we must all be horse girls™—
ponytails mid-gallop,
fully ingrained, wanting a mane n’ tail,
so we buy the same shampoo
and conditioner, hoping to wash
the human off us,
equine muscles ready
to flex beneath the skin. 

We are all dopamine sluts,
grasping at the next thing
to feel good and free.

Wake up in the middle of a commercial,
that exact snack already waiting
on the table beside you.

Be Sexy Like That

Pet a feral cat today,

slick as a black satin jacket

someone’s uncle wears

to drink beers through

Andy Griffith reruns,

a massive plastic jar

of cheese puffs

never far from reach—

his right-hand man.

Let the cat purr into your hand,

nuzzling against your palm,

your hand pressed firm

as one presses into a chair

when getting up—

steady, careful, holding.

Take that risk today.

Reach out a finger,

stroke a stranger,

see if it stays.

Technicolor Pinescape.

Want to pass out

in that way

that only comes artificially,

chemical sweet,

like a crow beakful of

Jolly Ranchers—

cherry, not watermelon,

the second-best flavor.

After my head hits

a pillow soft as the cotton

under the pill cap,

twisted open

before we’ve

even left the store.

Then I’ll consolidate my love

into one true way—the way

Dorothy took

the yellow brick road

as if the whole land of Oz

had no back roads,

no cut-throughs—

all them people,

Munchkins and witches,

Tin Men and Scarecrows,

a fucking lion,

a whole kingdom,

only paid for the one road,

bright as hard candy.

BBB: Botticelli Belly Bitch

Three vultures on the road

to Taco Bell while high,

car windows all the way down

to let the outside in and ponder

the natural order of things—

like how I should probably

do Invisalign before I get

a custom gold grill,

but before I do all that,

what do you think

of metallic teeth

on me—

if I got really jacked,

biceps-on-biceps jacked,

rolled T-shirt sleeves,

crop top, my Botticelli

belly on full display,

soft as roadkill

in the sun?

What do you think,

I ask the three vultures,

but they stay busy

with whatever the road

already gave them.