by C. Martinez
I owe you?
You think the first time I felt your hands squeezing my ass, and your
soft hair against the inside of my thighs was the first time I had an
orgasm? It’s true you were the first one to bruise my thighs and draw
blood, to watch my teeth cut into my lip in an attempt to dull the
pain of your slamming hips, but my first orgasm came when I was much
younger, still in that stage when a girl clutches herself and bounces
when she can’t find a bathroom. I peed myself with the pleasure of it,
and didn’t give a shit when my uncle spanked me over it.
Go Fuck Yourself
My Dear Little Cricket,
What has happened over the last year? I have watched my sharp little
cricket degenerate into a malicious, vindictive, jealous, and sex
obsessed little bee. Your constant threat to destroy my public career
by exposing our personal liaison, which has been something consensual
since day one, is both rash and selfish.
You still have the guarantee of a brilliant future ahead of you if you
can just take in a breath and learn to move on.
You do know what happens to a bee after the first sting?
I’m your little honeybee, your June bug, and your little cricket. I’m
your little ladybug, your caterpillar in chrysalis. I’m every cute
little bug you can think of. Your point is: I’m an insect. No matter
how cute a bug is you can always step on it, right? By threatening to
point my finger publicly, I’ve threatened to sting you, as you put it,
and do you know what happens to a bee after it stings, you add.
That’s a threat from you I suppose.
Well, I’ve stung before, I’ll sting again. If I’m an insect, I’m a wasp.
No Seriously—Fuck Yourself
Your increasingly irrational behavior is both terrifying and childish.
Believe me, I have weighed the consequences of my actions with you in
the past, but I am not going to suddenly become the penitent predator
begging your forgiveness for robbing a girl of innocence she has just
admitted she never had.
Your intelligence coupled with the beauty of your owl-eyed little
face, your precocious antics, and your preternatural comprehension of
all things those of us in our prime have still yet to grasp, were what
bound me to you. Intellectually, I found you raw and dripping with
promise. I have never had so much hope for a young mind as I’ve had
What has become of my efforts to guide you? You used to be the cooling
waters on my soul, the peace I had always dreamed of attaining.
It’s heart breaking.
This past year we fucked, almost suffocated under that velvet red
tapestry, and my legs clamped so hard around your waist as I came that
you had to press your hand over my mouth to keep Mr. R from hearing
I dug my teeth into the flesh. You had to inhale hard and asphyxiate
as I drew blood. Your cock went limp and when R left the room, you
dropped me and left me tangled in the fabric.
That was the moment when everything changed for you?
Was it the blood on your hand or seeing me masturbate at your feet
that threw you off?
This idyllic world of intellectual paradise you seem to miss so badly,
of guiding the precious ingénue like a worshipful lamb never existed
as far as I know. You seem to have created an ordo ab chao with eye
balanced shakily on the foundation that was my childhood with you,
while having absolutely no understanding of what it is to deal with
anything further than that.
The first time we fucked was hardly different then the last time. I
pulled your tie. I pulled your belt. You bruised my limbs and my lips.
There was never peace between us. It’s only come to the point where
you need someone presentable by your side and I’ll never be good
enough OR old enough to fit that bill.
So stop fucking kidding yourself.
Fuck Yourself Hard
In all truthfulness, I’d kill you if I could.
P.S. The point is: I don’t want to.
I’d like to see you try.
But, I know you won’t.
I suppose this is as close to love, as we’ll ever get.
Not actually killing each other? I can live with that. I’m still
invited to the wedding right?
What the fuck else am I going to do at the reception? Of course you are.
I was born blue. I refused to eat. I still refuse to eat
sometimes. I prefer tea. I live in a Colorado suburb and prefer to
write about people fucking up. My work has appeared in Short, Fast,
and Deadly, With Painted Words, Six Sentences, 50-1, Lightning Flash
magazine and Technicolor Magazine.