by Dawn West
Keep going with that feral growl. Shatter my neighborhood reputation. Knock my clock off the wall. Use my I.D. for your pre-coitus line. Toss aside my dirty sheets. Please keep clenching your jaw and glaring up at me. You tell me to call you a fast girl, a commie, a wino; all these petrified words that used to hurt people. I ask Where Did You Come From and you say Maine. Your gluteal muscles abduct and adjust to strain. Your raucous brawn and tendons. Your pulse like a sack of pissed off worms. You thrust your pussy in my face and it smells like summer rain. You cry out some girl’s name. I wonder if you’re gay and this is just tourism. I’d ask you to stay but I somehow know that any question of need is rhetorical to you. I’d make you stir fry and then we’d drop acid. We’d decorate my studio and hide from the constant tiny lacerations of this world. We’d pretend to love each other and then maybe we would.
Dawn West (b. 1987) is a nice young lady and a cheap date. She is proud of learning how to say "I finger fucked her" in French. This story is part of a manuscript in progress called Touch Me Touch Me Touch Me.