Sianna told me she used to vacation in Mystic every summer after she was 12, even around the times I would hang out around downtown. Sometimes I wonder if we’ve seen each other before we’d seen each other. I always say I want to take her back in the heat and show her all the spots I used to go, my smoke spots, where I got into trouble. Sometimes I wonder if we’ve been on the boardwalk at the same time, her with her little sister and mom and me with Bryel, if we got ice cream at the same time, passed each other on the drawbridge, drove by each other. Sometimes I wonder if coincidences are just coincidences or if we’re meant to be friends. 

Three years ago was the first fall I remember feeling like the season should. L and I went to Clyde’s back when I’d bum rush the back door of the high school after faking attendance in study halls, we’d smoke bowls at Avalonia in the Subie, and then eat enough food to stop our hearts. Clyde’s Cider Mill is only open from the end of August to the beginning of December because of the apple season. They make apple cider donuts coated in sugar, apple slushies, hard cider I got to sneak some of from my dad’s fridge. I love donuts but those are my favorite donuts in the world. They stuff six or twelve in a white paper bag so that the grease from the friers seeps through if they stay in the car long enough. We’d drink pints and gallons of cider in one sitting, getting so high all the donuts would leave sugar prints on our fingers. As we drove down 184 into Groton with the breeze in the leaves, with the sun shining before setting early, windows halfway down, I felt like I could be anything. We were best friends and we were happy.

small history of piercings

One and Two: Ears

For my 10th birthday I told my dad that I wanted to get my ears pierced. The summer before at Lola’s house I distinctly remembered how she’d pierced all of my mother’s friend’s ears with a needle and an apple, and how my mother herself had pierced ears, so I decided it was time for me. We went to a shitty hairdresser in Westerly on my birthday and my father paid $15 to have the girl shoot both of my ears with a piercing gun. It was the cheapest present he has ever gotten me for any birthday.

Nobody ever told me that you were supposed to take care of piercings so I didn’t. My ears became extremely irritated and one day while riding shotgun in the car with my dad, I looked into the rearview and noticed that my right ear had swallowed the metal stud completely. The same happened to my left ear but a little less grisly. My dad had to pull them off with pliers and I told him I didn’t want pierced ears anymore because I got my period that year and didn’t need to deal with anything unless I had to.

 Three: Clit Hood

About 3 weeks after my 18th birthday I decided to get my clit hood pierced in celebration. That same day my dad had driven me to the local probate court and then to Boston to deposit checks at a corporate bank with gleaming tiles at the entrance. When he dropped me off at Liz’s house after, I asked if we could to go New London.

Liz drove in her dad’s dying Grand Am to Bank Street and we walked over to Lost Soul Tattoo where the friendliest piercer stuck a needle past my clit and through my hood. To keep the hole from being too small, she stuck a 12g bar in there, gave me a sheet and told me to douse the hole in saline twice a day for two weeks.

About a month later I was sleeping over Liz’s house and when I got up to use the bathroom, noticed that peeing felt strangely empty. I looked at my clit and started shouting. The bar ripped through the tender flesh of my clit hood, tearing it into two thin pieces. I found the bar in my underwear about 5 minutes later and have left my genitals alone ever since, the skin above my clit looking like a lizard’s split tongue. 

Four: Philtrum

To celebrate making the dangerous trek into college, We took the red line to Belmont and perused several piercings. Dezi said she wanted her nose repierced so I decided to get my medusa. A nice but slightly shaky girl told me she hadn’t pierced a medusa in a while and she struggled to screw the ball on top.

The ball fell off a few days later at KaDee and Brie’s apartment. We struggled for about 20 minutes to look into the shaggy carpet for the tiny silver ball with no avail. I went back on the Red Line to Belmont and asked if they could sell me the top of the piercing.

Afterwards we struggled to try to screw on the ball, but couldn’t because my lip was so swollen, so I was forced to use a diamond stud KaDee had as an extra. The top of my lip became so irritated with the mismatching screw in piece that I had to go back to Belmont and switch my bar out for a longer one, to accommodate for the swelling.

Almost two months later the inside of the hole began to vomit white, infected skin, and I was forced to take it out in the bathroom. The infected bump has not yet gone away. The scar created a permanent indent above my lip.

Five: Septum

Out of desperation and lack of metal in my face, I got my septum pierced by a nice dude in the goth shop off Belmont. His name was Art and he said that septums were his favorite piercing to perform. Art also said that for most people it doesn’t hurt to get their septum pierced, but my eyes still teared up a little. This is the only one that never gave me trouble.

Six and Seven: High Nostrils

Spring break my freshman year, I took a Megabus out to Madison WI to visit my mom’s family. Lola was so upset at my giant septum ring that she wrote a letter on yellow pad paper and gave it to me on my departure back to Chicago, saying I was ruining the body god gave me. I threw the letter in the garbage after rereading it a second time, and the next day went off Division to get my high nostrils pierced. They might be a millimeter off, but I didn’t care.

Eight: High Nostril (again)

Me being a dumbass, I ignored the keloid that popped up over summer and took out the piercing for good, risking infection. While getting a tattoo of one of my mom’s sketched sweaters, I asked if they could also repierce it for me. The guy did not make a mark nor attempt to line it up; he left that to me, who is again, a dumbass, and made the hole far lower than even allows. I took it out the next day.

Nine: High Nostril (again)

The minute I got back to Chicago I made sure the same guy who did the original repierced it. He did fine putting the needle where it was and I’ve been symmetrical ever since.

Ten and Eleven: Ears (again)

In January Sianna, Nikki and I were eating a second high dinner at the Pick Me Up Cafe. I ordered the berry pancakes which included five plate-sized monsters, finished two, and told Nikki if she ate the last three I’d get my ears pierced. For some reason Nikki wanted to see me with pierced ears and everybody knows she can’t resist a bet. Somehow she managed to finish even on a full stomach. I kept my word and took the bus to Belmont to have them repierce the scar tissue leftover from the awful guns when I was ten, which stung like a bitch.

Twelve and Thirteen: Ears (again)

Today (September) I got my ears repierced at 2g because I wanted the satisfaction of nicer jewelry without the work of stretching; besides, it’s cheaper this way anyways, even with itty bitty lobes. Cuba at Identity did them and one ear bled more than the other. They’re both crusted over and smart like hell, won’t even heal for six months. But as long as I can shove gold in my face nothing matters, right?

the shaved head diaries

About three years ago I started getting high from smoking often to smoking multiple times a day. I had before then but the times were sparse, often a month or two going by without any sort of drug interaction. But that winter had been hard and by the time May came I had grown closer to two friends that were also in town for the summer with nothing to do. As a grossly lingering relationship drew to a close by end of June all of a sudden I faced zero responsibilities, was completely broke, with 2 months to waste while baking in sunshine. It was during these poorest months of my life that we lived and treated ourselves like kings.

Weed was always favorable to me over alcohol because it never made me sick and didn’t taste bitter. After my final breakup with Josh I started to realize that by spending my days high with L and S, all of us bonded by being stranded within 3 miles of each other in our shit ass hometown of Pawcatuck. I thought and cared less about him with ease. In the healing motion of hazy amnesia those nights on the road in L’s black Outback became the only space where I felt like I was finally my own person.

 After scrounging up money for some measly scraps from a friend of a friend, July 4th came around and we celebrated by baking out the car and lighting free fireworks in S’s backyard; our entire stash was depleted by the next afternoon. We had given up until S’s mom and her boyfriend Dave left inexplicably for the night. Something inside of us became hungry and desperate; we seized the time without anything else to think of.

“So I know that Dave is either growing or sells, but either way there is weed inside that basement,” said S. “I can smell it when I put my head down by the door crack.” She took me and L down the cracked tiled stairs into a cluttered room of the basement that had two doors ajar from each other in a nook on the side. One door led to an unused bathroom, where S went inside and took out a book with marijuana plants cover and The Grower’s Manual above it.

“See? I fucking told you, dude grows weed. And it’s some good ass stuff, too; I stole a nug once that was definitely white widow or some good shit like that. Go ahead, smell it.”

I brought my head down to the ratty carpet, stuck my nose in the door crack, and inhaled. It was musty, but with the definite scent of weed.

“Why can’t we just ask him to sell it to us?” asked L.

S shook her dyed crimson head, thinking about the fact that the man was dating her eternally drunk, spiteful dragon of a mom. She had court ordered her to let S stay for free until she got back on her feet and the woman was not pleased. “No. There’s no way.”

Her attention turned to the other door, jiggling impatient fingers at the knob. “Any way we could pick a lock?” she shrugged.

We looked up how to pick a lock, tried for 5 minutes with a pin and failed. “I know, there’s a window on the side of the house. We could try prying it open,” said S.

This whole thing that I accidentally became accomplice to was obvious once we walked up the stairs, out the glass door and over to the left side of her two-story ranch. Right before the deck foundation in a patch of ivy, two white rotted windows sat dark with the curtains closed.

Both L and S began to move faster than I could believe for the sake of fear and time; they both went into the garage, S came out with a license plate and a hammer, and she dug the plate into the splintered window crack while hitting it with a hammer. The license wouldn’t jam far enough.

L whipped by me back to the garage and came back with a black rubber mallet. “Try this—”

S grabbed the mallet, tried to open the window, and ended up holding the license steady while L whacked at it. The thin metal sheet stuck underneath and we watched in awe and agony as it pried and lifted the window open.

We all whispered silent swears and screams. L opened the window just far enough to sneak under and the both of them looked at me, alternate pairs of blue and brown eyes staring into my face with hope. The opening was only small enough for me.

After shaving my head for the summer and spending all of my time on the beach I had accepted my role into their tiny version of family as the child. My weight barely went over 130 and I was 17, girlish metabolism still holding out no matter how much fast food I ate. L and S were both two and three years older than me and their bodies had already accepted a more shapely womanhood. My skin began to prickle with adrenaline.

Okay. Okay. It took come convincing but I stuck my head underneath the splintered window, curved up and into the unknown basement. Outside, the sky was turning from blue to black.

“Help, I need help! I can’t get my leg through!”

Two sets of hands leaped at my foot and I thrusted my clumsy body through, tearing my inside thigh on the wood. My arms set out blind into the darkness as I clutched a shelf of books directly under me, knocking some of them over as I tumbled and crashed on an unseen couch.

Both of them sprinted and I got up, disorientated and in disbelief, as they appeared outside the door. When I opened it they turned the light on and blurred as I looked around, unsure of what to do.

There was a loveseat, a couple of desks, a bookshelf and a bureau lining the edges of the dull white room. In the sliding door closet both of them peeked in and saw two massive shotguns. They quietly shut the door. “Where the fuck would he hide his weed?”

They opened drawers, checked inside boxes, containers, behind stacks of paper; one jar on the bureau had a massive damp nugget the size of my fist wrapped in plastic. This victory was only the first. “This isn’t finished to smoke yet; there’s gotta be something else.”

On the bottom of the bookshelf in a corner was a red insulated lunchbox. S reached it first. I watched as she zipped it open and screamed.

“Quick! Give me a bag,” she yelled as L ran up to the kitchen and came back with a Ziploc. In the silver lining of the lunch box were about 6 or 7 little mason jars of weed.

S read the tape labels on the top of the jars: blackberry kush, blue dream, sour diesel. A nugget from each jar was carefully placed in the baggie so our tracks would never be traced. My heart was racing from keeping track of tires crunching and the possible sound of us being caught and cussed out. Afterwards in a blur it was clear I had to sneak through the window again: L and S darted out the front door to catch me out the side of the house. I clicked the lock on the door, shut off the light, placed a firm foot on the head of the couch and launched myself out the window into arms.

S caught me while L was already waiting in the Subaru, one light on to inspect our bounty. We clambered in, slamming the doors shut as she floored the gas pedal away, all three of us shrieking louder. It couldn’t have been much more than an eighth that we stole, but free weed was free weed, especially when it was homegrown by old white men. Both of them rubbed my fuzzy head and laughed; if there were any qualms about me being able to fuck with girls out of high school, they’d been squashed. I was one of them now.

This started a season of stolen goods and cut security tags, taking whatever we wanted because we could, we were young, and nobody cared. Even my bald head meant nothing with a stuffed purse so long as my back was turned to security cameras. We scanned ceilings, stole money out of our parent’s pockets and wallets for late night Denny’s, smoked ourselves out on the beach before the white shirts came, took stickers, label makers, patches to sew onto nothing, just to prove that we could. It wouldn’t be the last time we shoved a license plate into that basement window for weed. For the first time in our lives we were the ones in control, making the rules. For the first time we were free.

All I wanted to do was see The World Is A Beautiful Place and I Am No Longer Afraid To Die. The bands that played were good, but the occasional arm around my shoulder was better. You kept checking back at The Simpsons playing on a side white wall via projector throughout sets and it was endearing to see you that distracted. When they finally played I wondered how dumb you thought my swaying and chanting was. To see you sing along with me lifted my spirits far more than the contents of the mason jar in my center console ever could.

On the way home I saw a shooting star. You said it scared you to hear me scream, but it scared me to see it with you in my passenger seat; meteorites have a habit of showing up at big events for me and there were never exceptions. I had a one-track thought: whoever is doing this, please let me kiss him.

Once we got onto Route 2 the conversation turned back to us, and the words we said had were tinged with the future tense, like we were speaking for our eventual selves. I admitted thinking about you dying made me cry sometimes. You asked, “Are you really gonna come back for me?” I said yes, I’d written it in my senior scrapbook. When I turned onto your street The World Is came on again, and our smiles were illuminated by the streetlights as we sang along to songs our ears had heard live not even 2 hours before.         

The second I put my car into park your mouth was on mine.
First kisses are never good kisses.

I cupped your chin to reaffirm that I wanted this; the hours spent thinking about being this close outnumber the crinkles in your smile. After the 4th kiss I rested my head onto yours and listened to the blood rushing underneath the skin against my cheek.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

You broke out of the car and I didn’t want to make eye contact, but once you walked into the house I screamed and swore into the darkness. Those damn stars were right, every time.

Our cars grooved in and out of gravel driveways, dozens of bodies on the balcony or patio smoking spliffs and cigarettes. People left and came back and all that we left was ash. Jordana put the plywood watercolor outside and when it rained, anonymous drops landed at random and made the blue paint bleed. The first night I talked to everybody, laughed easily. We were celebrating with Budweiser and coloring, one big sketchbook left out on the dining room table. Everybody asked with caution to use my markers or rolling tobacco. I got tipsy off of one beer. The biggest dragonfly of summer flew inside from all the open doors and banged his glass wings against the ceiling, the windows, landing upside-down on the floor. Tommy put his foot over it and made all the girls scream, “Don’t kill it!” Eventually it latched onto James’ pant leg and he ran outside. Everybody cheered with their drinks in the air.

Later: something had been off all night. It was just the three of us left awake. Jordana recanted that this would be her (our) last summer in Connecticut and when Jen moaned to stop, Jo slurred, “Get over it, that’s the truth.” The smell of the house became sharp and I went upstairs to sleep in a room of dirty laundry. Staring at unfamiliar ceilings, I figured what was off: Jordana was detaching. After a summer of truth telling and exchanging what our first year of college meant, she was distancing herself from me a week in advance, the signal that this messy bliss would not last. We had to fall out of love not only with these people, but the houses and scenes of Stonington and all the privilege that came with living in a postcard. Jordana said later she was thankful for everybody coming to her so she didn’t have to make an effort to say goodbye. I didn’t care about that; I just wanted something worth remembering.

The next day when I left to get my stitches out and came back, Scarlet was fuming. Jordana had taken a twin mattress out on the lawn. “My parents paid for it and they birthed me, so please just put it back.” We waited a pain in the ass time to take a picture before the sun went down.

The second night I stopped talking, to everybody. My markers were strewn across the tables and counter, rolling tobacco temporarily missing for other fingers. Threats were made to anybody who went near my red plums from the last farmer’s market of summer. Jesse brought over the kittens to Scarlet’s room and they were skittish, nervous and avoiding the drugged humans that dawdled around to pet them. Rounds upon rounds of pasta were made in heaping piles, every noodle gone within minutes. I felt nauseous when someone looked at me like they knew me, only to find out that they did. I wanted to be a stranger. All night I asked James to roll me another spliff; I was lazy, I wanted to dissipate into nothing. But even the crutch that kept me amongst clouds was too much of a responsibility.

The next day was gray, in my brain and the sky. The clean up post-house party was typical: remove all the evidence before parents come home. We were ushered out by 4. After most of the party had left, after the clean haul, Scarlet, Jordana, Jen and I brought out every crystal we had on a painted paper and meditated for maybe 20 minutes. Somebody broke the silence; I don’t remember who, perhaps a sneeze. Jordana rolled onto her back and I stretched in the grass, erasing the cricks in my back from couch sleeping. Jen looked up and said, “Hey, the sun came out.” The clouds came back another 20 minutes later.

While sweeping butts and burnt paper remnants away on the stone patio, I left some ash in the cracks. They scattered off and around, eventually Scarlet insisted it would be fine to leave. I think she wanted the house to ruminate from the ends of mouths that would soon be gone. The dust that was left in between stones beside it was far more permanent than the tricky humans who would soon be gone.

high in the grapefruit

One day after I had gotten out of the shower, hair soaked in my bathrobe, this singing starts to permeate through the walls, and it’s good singing. It’s an ethereal kind of song, making my lips curl upward as I laughed to myself. I was in disbelief to be living with someone who sounded that faery-like. That was the first time I loved Sianna.

She was beautiful and I don’t mean that in a typical way, because nobody ever does. But she was fucking beautiful. She had a criminal record back in Michigan and sometimes this tiny lisp would seep out and she was taller than any of us that lived in 811, even taller in her maroon Doc Martens with knee socks. Her hair was always frizzy and I loved it, like she was constantly just out of bed. She was always just out of bed, practically nocturnal by sleeping in the morning and waking up after the sun went down. Her and Nikki stayed up all night smoking in the shower while my bodily clock told me to shut off around five. They’d get breakfast and I’d be mad about it, mad that my eyes would close before 7 am.

She was half-Korean half-Jamaican with black eyes and high cheekbones. I wanted to gut punch everybody that made racist Asian passes at her, even intended as a joke. She could pick up any guitar and start playing it. Once she asked her mom to bring all her records to the apartment, because Chris left his portable Crosley player in my room, and her mom brought her police records instead. When we left the room she was the easiest to pack, because the only things she had were instruments and beat machines, microphones and an amp. 

One time for her birthday we got 15 people to smoke inside my bathroom, people in the tub and on the toilet and in the sink. One time at the Illinois Institute of Technology, we danced on a wet campus with mathletes and art students alike, eventually ditching to play ping pong at a frat house. One time at a party Nikki ate all the host’s bread and we had to leave; I vomited Fireball and orange juice after the train ride, immediately sober. One time Kip told me I had pretty eyes and she glared at me, drunk as hell, and said, “Olivia gets told that all the time, ya fuckin bitch.” I wanted to cuss her out, say fuck you dude, I wish I was half as beautiful as you.

One time we had both finished seeing Spring Breakers and Nikki didn’t know what it was, so we imitated the robbery scene out on her. I was Vanessa Hudgens and she was Ashley Benson. We screamed in her face, backed into a corner so that she almost tripped: GET ON YOUR FUCKING KNEES BITCH, GET ON THE FUCKIN GROUND, ONE SHOT AND YOU’RE DONE. Our fingers were pointed into fake pistols and when Nikki looked like pure terror, we stopped and burst into laughter onto the clothes piled up at the end of my bed.

We played her Genesis record on repeat every time, smoking out of broken bowls that looked like aliens that got us sick, blowing germs over a dusty fan in a damp room. Towels were always by the door’s floor and I would compromise, her over homework every time. 

We played her Genesis record every day, so that the metalcore boys next door would hear Oblivion in their sleep. She was the only person who could sing along with Grimes and not sound like shit. A few days before we signed out of room 811, Chris took back the record player and my desk looked empty without it. 

We played her Genesis record all the time, so that the smoke drifting up and out of the room through the vents could sing along with the dirt and grime we left in the floor. We played it so that by the time the needle should have turned somebody was on it, flipping the vinyl over and ruminating while sitting back down. We played her record enough so that even in my car, on the highway, by the ocean, I couldn’t really hear it without her muttering lyrics, forever behind a soft lisp.

Often I’m wondering about what Chris said in April, that I’ve never been loved my whole life. It was just getting warm enough to wear short sleeves and he looked at my arm and asked where the scars came from. I like Chris for that reason. Even though he’s 37 and grew up in Alabama and says I dress in small clothes for the attention, not because I want to, he has a good heart. When I came back for fall semester he grabbed my wrist and looked at the pink scars from where I landed in the emergency room. I swore on my grandmother’s life that it was an accident, I was cutting a ziptie with the knife from Chinatown toward my body and it landed in my arm, spurting. He gave me a funny look and said that he hopes to god he believes me. I don’t smoke weed much anymore because it makes me depressed, and his goatee grew out from when I last saw him. He says he’s about to land a deposit for a second restaurant, one where you can sit down and eat at before retiring on the Alabama countryside. I miss our talks but without the weed it’s not the same. He’s the first person that made me believe I had good inside me in a long while. He was right that I’ve never been loved my whole life, picked that up from our parking lot talks in between my classes.

There’s this theory that I enjoy letting men use me, because why else would I do it? Why else would I let them look into my eyes while they feed me coke or hash, while they glance at my chest when I’m drunk as shit? I say I’ve never been raped but coercion is a reality I’ve lived in. Myself at 4 am is different than me at the beginning of the night, me when I’m sober; and these men know that.

These are the reasons I hate my eyes. They’re too light, alienating from olive skin and dark hair, an anomaly, resulted from fucked up genes. My cousins and brother both have brown eyes despite also being mixed; my brother even has black hair and brown skin to match our mom’s. I am jealous because I know men blame my eyes when they sit my chin up to stick their dicks in their mouths. I know these eyes are the result of rape and that they are probably the justification of my rape, too.

I’m not saying I didn’t say yes; I’m saying that when I said yes my brain was too foggy to think about a possible no. That the regret I felt afterward didn’t count because clearly I wanted it, clearly I was able to make that distinction. My question is what happens when a man slides his hand on your thigh after five or six beers? Are the warmth of his fingers as lovely as the hash you both smoked? Does you almost being passed out, delirious, make him more hard? Or am I truly a submissive at heart?

It was four in the morning and I was sleeping in my car deep into winter, unable to go home from being too late. After quizzing him for almost half an hour as to why we should hook up, why this was okay, I said fine; I let it happen. I did not want it to happen. He was too quiet during head, so I said to make noise, and the dirty talk that ensued made my stomach curdle. There’s nothing fucking worse than dirty talk; it’s all porn-endused, something they think you want, these remarks of being slutty and a good little whore are warranted. Two winters ago I tasted cum in my mouth that was sour, watched another body as I fucked to fuck, even after I was falling asleep, this boy that wanted me so bad woke me up to have me. The reason we were parked: I was too high off hash to drive without crashing.

This past summer, the first time: too wasted at a friends house for a shoot, everybody else was kicked out, the friend I came with slumped over an armchair, until I noticed her brother awake and seated at the ends of the couches. I slurred something about how being a video hoe wasn’t even the worst thing I’ve done; he looked at my face and then below the neck then back at my eyes to say, what else is there? After pausing to show pictures on my phone he glanced at a few nudes and said I had great tits. Almost a year before I modeled for erotic film photography: the site was up on my phone and he glanced at the screen, then back at me, muttering and sighing smiles. He led me into his room, asked if I had anything to tell him; I mentioned the herpes, he slipped two fingers in for a while and sat me up, him standing. He’d been on vacation for a week, he said, too busy even to masturbate. When I’m drunk the head comes easier because of the subdued gag reflex, the blurred vision, lost sense of time. I felt even worse after he mentioned his sister, my friend, who also had herpes, and it made me want to choke; I drove home wasted to avoid being in the apartment any longer.

This past summer, the second time: one of the first nights I went back to my hometown there was a duel birthday party. One of the boys was drunk by the time we arrived at the 70’s era bungalow with prized, empty handles lined up on the mantle. All night the birthday boy kept on yelling on and on about who’s going to give him birthday head. And while various straight guys offered he refused, eyeing all the estrogen in the room. He fed us coke, me especially after I talked big from being in Chicago, off a tray in a teal room that smelled of Axe (it wasn’t very clean either). A group of us drove back to another friend’s apartment, did even more coke until people dropped out on couches and in sleeping bags. Eventually it was just two of us staying up, me strung out and a little tipsy when he kissed me, took me back to the guest bedroom to make out while the sky lightened in blues til sunrise. After a while I gave up, gave into the head, wiped my mouth after he came and said “Happy birthday.” In the morning he woke up and told one of my best friends that I was a weird kisser; something I kept rotting in my chest the rest of vacation out of passive aggressiveness. “At least the head was good,” he said.

Sometimes I wonder if I am a doll to be placed this way or that out of convenience, if fellatio comes as easily as wanting to please does. I wonder if it’s because nobody’s ever loved me in that way. I wonder if it’s because I’m malleable, shaped easily into this limp body that says yes after enough berating or if it’s because I’m weak, I want attention, I want people to like me. Please like me. Even if it means the shame of furrowed eyebrows and staring at the floor, please ensure that you, a man of integrity and a hard on outlined in his boxer shorts, likes me.