By Kate Nacy

All Rights Reserved.

My pussy tastes like reverse mortgages. And coconut water. Spell it out with your tongue, C-O-C-O-N-U-T Q-U-I-M. That’s a fine financial instrument, tell me more. Tell me there’ll be secretarial work, a shot at personal assistant. Review my résumé, note the following: I have experience ordering tablets, I’m fun at parties. I’ve viewed decades and decades of film. I’ll peel back layers of dress code, I’ll order the popular cupcakes. Let’s break into your office and blow lines off your turgid, ergonomic desk. Punch your tongue up my ear and whisper, Opening in human resources. Whisper, Spreadsheets. I’ll tattoo your rug on my kneecaps. I’ll lick your buttonholes. I’ll say, Oh brown-haired suburban fuck machine, Close your eyes, Let’s mix religions. Can you hear my heart sparkling like stock options? Let’s move to a suburb near a city where no one knows us except all our friends. Circle-jerk a ring around our neighborhood, install security cameras, hire a gatekeeper. We’ll paper the foyer in Dockers, we’ll have acres and acres of sod. Meet Don and Donna Donaldson, they’re our neighbors but encrypt your smartphone, who knows what they’ve been. Together we’ll engage in barbequed livestock. (None for me thanks, I’m off viands). Hey let’s all get hard-ons and valet. Our congregation has the lowest rate of dirty fingernails, thank god for spring-loaded tension. I heard the latest sex craze is to wrap yourself in chicken wire. I’m your filthy little hen, I’m doing this for you. We’re remodeling. The toilet’s incompatible with our stools. DON’T STARE IN THE EPICENTER, the glare will blind you! (I heard there’s a machine to keep you from looking). We’re victims of a defalcating fungus, we’re victims of wide-screen swellings. Babe, our showerhead won’t lick in Italian. We’re going to need a new showerhead, this won’t lick in Italian. I want a shower that says, Non è colpa tua. I heard my stupid dry body should be made of water. Can we carry out? I need magazines or my polyphagia acts up. I’ll suck the blood off your fingers if you let us join a fitness club. Can we carry out? Tell them I need certain waters or my mouth froths. Tell them I black out in saunas. Tell them I black out on freeways. Excuse me Officers we’re under the influence of Christmas now Officers go away now, Officers. Can we carry-out? Hon you’re leaking plastic, have your lawyer call my lawyer. I’ll lap it up if it’s low-cal baby put your cock in me, we’ll make ourselves Whole Foods again. Once a day we see a therapist. (When you’re at work I mount the coffee rig). Yes it’s my addictive personality, yes of course my addictive personality. Can I get this in a size they don’t make? We’re Centurians, we need time to think about timeshares. We need an archipelago shaped like a coat hanger. I’m an artisan, I make my own sleeping pills. I want a pharmaceutical dependency I can depend on. (This body still feels like it’s mine). I heard the latest sex craze is to wrap yourself in Gladd bags, wait by the dumpsters. I’m your dirty little sack, I’m doing this for you. Wind my hair around your wrist and whisper, Macau. Whisper, Seychelles. Whisper, Switzerland Nauru. Part your wallet cowboy, ours is a lifetime of civilized pornographies.

Kate Nacy lives in Berlin. Her writing has appeared in Bend Over Magazine; Die Neuw Zürcher Zeitung; Juked; The Milan Review; The Prague Revue; Rolling Stone; and elsewhere. She helps produce the Michigan Review of Prisoner Creative Writing.