I TAPPED A CIGARETTE OVER MY EX'S CUNT AND IT SMELLED LIKE NUTRISSE AND PINK WHITNEY - Savannah Mandella
LAST WEEKEND YOU LOOKED AT YOUR ASSHOLE
IN THE MIRROR, YOUR BACK BENT AT THE EXORCIST ANGLE
AND YOUR HEAD CRANED BETWEEN YOUR
KNEES LIKE A CONTORTIONIST PRACTICING A SET,
TWELVE INCHES FROM THE BATHROOM DOOR
WHICH YOU DIDN’T REALIZE WAS UNLOCKED
UNTIL YOUR ROOMMATE JIGGLED THE HANDLE.
AND AS YOU SHOOED HER AWAY,
VOICE WEAK FROM THE MUSCLE STRAIN,
YOUR BRAIN FELT THE NEED
TO REMIND ITSELF THAT
YOU USUALLY DON’T DO THINGS LIKE THIS,
LICKING ITS WOUNDS WITH A PRETENSE OF DECENCY
LIKE THAT SAME CONTORTIONIST AFTER
MISTAKING THEIR KNEE FOR THEIR
ELBOW AND SLIPPING A DISK ON STAGE
BUT KYLE WAS SUPPOSED TO COME OVER,
YOUR REFLECTION MEWLED IN PROTEST,
AND HE WAS GOING TO FUCK YOU
SO ONCE YOU HAD KICKED
EVERYTHING ON THE FLOOR
UNDER THE BED AND LITTERED
YOUR ENTIRE BODY WITH DAMP
PINK NICKS FROM THE RAZOR
AND FILLED UP THAT MAGENTA PLASTIC COMB
YOU’VE HAD SINCE YOU WERE THIRTEEN
WITH HARD KNOTS OF DEAD HAIR
AND JERKED YOURSELF INTO A WHITE
NYLON JUMPSUIT WITH LACE DESIGNS
OVER THE TITS THAT MAKE THEM LOOK
LIKE SOMETHING THAT A MAN WOULD BE INCLINED TO SUCK,
YOU REALIZED THAT, SHOCK AND HORROR,
YOU HAD NEVER SEEN YOUR OWN ASSHOLE.
AND WHETHER OR NOT IT WILL COME OFF AS
ADEQUATELY ENTICING TO KYLE,
YOU CANNOT CONFIDENTLY SAY.
AND YOU KNEW GOING INTO THIS THAT
SOMEWHERE OUT THERE IS A PERSON
WITH AN ANUS SO IMMACULATE THAT FINEART AMERICA
PUT IT’S CLOSE UP SHOTS ON AN IPHONE CASE
THAT YOU CAN BUY AND CARRY AROUND WITH YOU EVERYWHERE FOR 41 BUCKS PLUS SHIPPING.
AND AS YOU STAND THERE WITH THE BLOOD RUSHING TO YOUR HEAD TRYING TO KEEP YOUR KNEES FROM BUCKLING
AND LEAVING YOUR GOURD SPLATTERED
ALL OVER THE LINOLEUM FOR KYLE TO FIND
YOU’RE STILL FINDING THE STRENGTH TO BE
KINDA PISSED AT YOUR BEST FRIEND FOR SENDING YOU THAT LINK AS A JOKE. BECAUSE EVEN IF SHE DIDN’T MEAN TO,
(BLESS HER HEART,)
SHE GOT YOUR HOPES UP
THAT YOU, TOO, COULD BE WORTHY OF A FORTY DOLLAR IPHONE CASE, COULD ENTER MISS UNIVERSE KNOWING YOU HAD
A GUARANTEED WIN IN THE MANGINA CATEGORY,
COULD FINALLY DISCOVER SOMETHING ABOUT YOURSELF
TO BE LOUDLY, BRAZENLY PROUD OF.
BUT CERTAIN PARTS OF THE BODY DID NOT
EVOLVE TO BE SCRUTINIZED IN A BATHROOM MIRROR
AND EVEN THOUGH LOGICALLY YOU KNEW THAT FOR A FACT, YOU ALSO KNEW THAT ALL THOSE MILLENNIA
OF NATURAL SELECTION AND THEIR SUBSEQUENT IMPACT ON YOUR VARIOUS TUBES AND FOLDS AND COLLAGENS
ARE NOT KYLE’S FUCKING PROBLEM,
AND MAYBE THAT’S WHY IT’S A RELIEF THAT
EVEN AFTER DOING ALL THAT WORK,
THE JUMPSUIT AND THE COMB AND
THE STUFF UNDER THE BED AND THE GNAWING
AT YOUR SPINE
WHEN YOU FINALLY ALLOW IT
TO STRAIGHTEN OUT AGAIN,
HE, KYLE, CASUALLY REVEALS THAT
HE HAS A MENTAL BLOCK WITH CONDOMS
THE DANGER OF WHICH IS NOT KYLE’S FAULT,
AS HE HAS A HOST OF PREDICAMENTS THAT HE CALLED: “A LATEX ALLERGY”
“A THIRTEEN INCH DICK”
“A WEIRD CURVE IN THE CENTER”
“A CLEAN BILL OF HEALTH FROM THE CLINIC” AND YOU GET TO LOOK BACK AND REALIZE THAT HE WASN’T JUST ASKING ABOUT YOUR BODY COUNT BECAUSE THAT IS A NORMAL QUESTION TO ASK IN THIS AGE OF THE
HIGH VALUE MAN AND THE SEX SLAVER PODCAST WHERE THE GIRLS IN LOW CUT TOPS WITH CHUNKY HAIR HIGHLIGHTS SIT IN A CIRCLE WORDLESS AS BLOW UP DOLLS
AND LISTEN TO A GUY RAMBLE
ABOUT HOW THEY ARE “SOIL FOR HIS SEED” AND I’M STRONGER, I’M SMARTER,
I’M BETTER. I AM BETTER.
KYLE ASKED TO KNOW
HOW MANY MEN YOU HAD FUCKED BEFORE HIM BECAUSE KYLE WANTED TO BE SURE THAT SOME VENGEFUL ANTEDILUVIAN GOD OF OLD WASN’T GOING TO REACH DOWN AND SMITE HIM WITH HERPAGONASYPHILAIDS
JUST BECAUSE HE MADE THE MISTAKE OF
PENETRATING YOUR FRESHLY NAIRED HOLE WITH HIS 6 BY 2 INCHES OF BARE DICK.
AND YOU THINK ABOUT
THE MONO YOU GOT FROM THAT
HALF-EMPTY-HALF-BACKWASH BOTTLE
OF BLUE RASPBERRY SVEDKA WITH
AMBIGUOUS BROWN STAINS ON THE RIM
YOU PUT IN YOUR VIRGIN MOUTH LAST APRIL BECAUSE YOU THOUGHT IT WOULD MAKE
A COOL SELFIE WHEN YOU WERE
PLASTERED AT 2 AM
AND SURELY NOBODY
BROUGHT ENOUGH ROHYPNOL
TO TAINT 750 MILLIGRAMS OF LIQUOR.
YOU THINK ABOUT SHOVING A CARROT
IN FALLOW SOIL, LOOKING DOWN
AND SAYING “GROW.”
AND IN THAT MOMENT
YOU HAVE BEEN TEXTING KYLE
FOR A WEEK NOW AND YOU HAVE SHARED
TEN WORDS OVER THE PHONE AND
HE HAD A NICE VOICE, YOU REMEMBER THINKING,
SO ONCE YOU’VE TUGGED
OFF THAT HORRIBLE JUMPSUIT
AND GOTTEN BACK INTO YOUR EMPTY BED,
REFUSE RATTLING AROUND UNDERNEATH THE MATTRESS, YOU WANT TO USE YOURS
TO SAY ALOUD, TO NO ONE,
THAT YOU’RE NEVER
GONNA SEE HIM AGAIN
BUT YOUR LIPS GO TO FORM THE WORDS,
PUCKERING UP TO THAT O-SHAPE OF MIMETIC PERFECTION LIKE YOU SEE ON THE HUB,
AND YOU REALIZE THAT YOU NEVER ACTUALLY SAW HIM IN THE FIRST PLACE.
AND YOU DON’T WANT TO LOOK STUPID DO YOU?