Warning: the following 250-word flash fiction contains strong language and sexual imagery. Reader discretion is advised.
Pippi Longstockings primping in their pedal-pushers bore the fuck out of me. Literally. I masturbate like, three, four times a day just to devil-be-gone my irritation at their pretty petty posturing. Filter-ready hair and mannequin-makeup embody the lackluster appeal of a once-white sock used as a sperm receptacle: been there, done that, now what?
Vis-à-vis, I can go from shit-I’m-cumming-so-hard to how’s-the-weather at the inkling of a rattled doorknob. When I’m by myself I’m never alone because obsessive thinking’s got my back (right hand’s got my front). Maybe tonight I’ll get lucky and pass out if I reenact busting my cherry like how my hairy high school boyfriend annihilated my hymen.
Crudeness turns me on — that’s why Dick’s my go-to, that random neighborhood dogwalker with a Neanderthal’s beard, car mechanic hands and greasy grey knuckles. I could suck his fingers into my gullet, one by one, try not to gag…I might like it to the point of nausea, ad nauseam.
The what-if-he-makes-me suspends the orgasmic suspense as my digits wander into wet folds of flesh to emulate his truck-stop, “Get on your knees, girl!” grit. When I sink them in — down to the quick — I taste engine oil and hear his phlegmy moan. My nipples rock-harden (no doubt I flick them like they belong to someone else). With teeth sharper than a baby’s gums, I test the weight of one dark pink bud on my tongue.
I don’t yearn for Mommy’s milk; but I suckle like a lifelong pro.