Find a comfortable position. Feel free to lie down or lean back. If you’d like, let your eyes gently blur or fully close as you focus on my voice. Take a deep breath. Bring your attention to your tailbone.

On each exhale, let your tailbone sink deeper and deeper down into the cushion you sit upon… heavier into the floor of the room that you’re in… deeper down, now into the foundation of the building that you’re in—past old pipes and roots—into the earth’s crunchy crust, and then its fiery mantle.

Stay in the Earth’s mantle for a few breaths, allowing Earth’s heat to circulate your tailbone and groin. As heat rises, allow yourself to melt, like a solid into liquid, oozing deeper down until you’ve reached Earth’s core. At the core, you’ll find a door. This is the door to your ✨goon cave✨, a place that is psychically created and customized just for you. Separate from all other space and time. There are no responsibilities or gender, social, or sexual norms expected of you when you enter this place. Your erotic reality is safe to explore and experience here. No one else is allowed inside, unless you invite them in.

When, and if you’re ready to, open the door. This is your ✨goon cave✨. Look around. What is it made of? Is its structure made from material that is soft, like cotton or skin? Is it hard, like stone or steel? What color is it? Is there anything posted on or hanging from the walls? Playing on a screen? Are there any items? Sex toys? Posters? Photos of loved ones or crushes? Does it stay the same, or does it change the longer you observe it? If you’re ready to, take a step inside your cave. If you’re not, that’s okay… just peek your head inside and take a deep breath.

What’s it smell like? Does it smell sweet like vanilla? Is it sweaty? Musky? Mahogany? Are there different notes to the smell? Maybe it smells like a specific person or a memory or your own sexual secretions….

Listen to it. Are any sounds being made? A voice? A whisper? A moan? Is it muffled? Is it loud? How does it make you feel? Does it lure you in? Do you want to go deeper into the room, or does it frighten you? If you’re still not inside, I encourage you to try to go inside. But if you’re still resisting, don’t force yourself to. Stay where you feel the most comfortable. How does your body feel as you observe or stand still in the cave? What about your mood? What happens if you sit or lie down, and touch it?

Is the air cool or warm? Wet? Does the room feel sticky? Furry? Soft? Is the texture the same all over, or does it change? If you’re especially curious, you can open your mouth and breathe air into your diaphragm. Taste it. What’s it taste like? Candy? Menthol? Medical like medicine? Heavy-bodied like coffee, leather, or mushroom? You can lick the walls like Willy Wonka’s wallpaper, or eat it if that feels and tastes good. You can spit it out. You can savor it. You can save a piece in your cheek for later.

When you’re ready to return to everyday reality, stand up in your goon cave if you’ve been sitting or lying in it. Head towards the door. When you’re there, give your cave a final look. Take note of anything that’s evolved, grown, or disappeared since you’ve been there. Give thanks to its existence and design, even if it makes you feel uncomfortable. Know that it is always there for you if you ever want to revisit it to examine, explore, analyze, fuck, or make art in. Step outside of your goon cave when you’re ready, and close the door behind you.

Now, as you breathe, each exhale propels you closer back to everyday reality, like a scuba diver to the surface. You are lighter than a feather, cool as a cucumber, as you pass through the earth’s mantle, then crust unscathed. Come up through the building’s foundation and floors until you meet yourself back at your tailbone.

Feel the seat around you. Move your fingers and toes. Let sensation ground you back into everyday reality. And when you’re ready, you can open your eyes and come back to class. Welcome back from your ✨goon cave✨. Now, I would like you to just take a few minutes to either write or draw your goon cave. Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to share any details about it. This is your private space…

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“The fuck you looking at?” the snail hollers at me from below.

“Nothing much, tiny. Why don’t you shut the fuck up before I feed your dirty ass to my chicks?” I squawk back.

“Don’t tempt me with a good time, darling.” His tentacles vibrate. His head bobs. “Forreal though… why don’t you come down here, hun? I sense that mommy needs a break from the nest.”

The slime bag’s not wrong. I do need a break and a lay that’s not an egg. But should I stoop so (literally) low as to fuck a ran through snail?

“There’s a worm down here!” he adds. “Could be a nice little midnight snack for mommy.”

I scan the street. He’s right. There’s a fat worm, face down, tail up and wriggling in a crack in the pavement. I’d like to slurp it up and shoot it down my trap without having to regurgitate it shortly after. That worm’s all mine, bitch.

I leave the nest with babies crying. They’ll get over it, I assure myself as I swoop down past an anxious firefly atop a propelling maple seed, and onto the starry night asphalt. My talons click the rock. I hop toward the worm, its ass thick, wet, and wiggling in distress. It’s stuck. Disabled (blind). Sad and pathetic. Same. Whatever. Someone put it out of its misery! Someone put me out of my misery!

“You’re welcome, by the way!” the snail taunts as I hop closer and closer to the worm’s rear.

“Mmhmm, yeah. Thank you…” I thank him half-assedly.

If the worm hadn’t heard my nails’ landing, it most certainly heard my approach now. Poor delicious shithead.

“And how are you gonna thank me, darling?” the snail buzzes from the sidelines.

“Jesus Christ! Shut up, would you??? If you can manage to slime over here in time, I’ll let you fuck, ok???”

“Whaaaa??? No way! Serious?—”

“Serious. Now let me eat this fucking thing!”

Unfortunately, I’m turned on. The snail’s self-aware-shock that I’d let something as low-and-slow as him crawl inside my cloaca makes me feel good. Beautiful, almost? That, and this worm’s wild rump which flails below my breast. I stand above the worm now. It knows I’m here, and that it’s soon to die. The worm submits to its defeat and quits noodling around. Better to get it over with. I bend my pear-shaped body down—I just know that pervy snail’s checking me out—to tweeze the worm’s flesh between my beak, and pull up and away, so I can swallow it all at once. But it’s stuck! Really fucking stuck! In this crack! In the cement! Ugh! I pull and pull and yank my head in the opposite direction, but the worm’s tacky body stays put like bubblegum. How deep in the crack is this fucking thing? It snaps away from my grip, and coils into a shriveled spool of pink scum. I gird my loins, ground my talons. I peck and pull the worm up again. Now, this is just embarrassing. If I don’t get the job done and soon, the snail’s going to (literally) ride my ass—

SLIME! tickles my asshole. Fuck. Nooooooo. How’d he get here so fast?

“I’m speedy when determined,” the snail teases from behind.

I’m speechless. Because A) I’m in shock, B) there’s half of a half-dead worm in my mouth, and C) the snail’s sticky circles the rim of my cloaca. Fuck, it feels insane—like the squirt of a bidet from a swampy warm bird bath. I’m paralyzed in all areas but my cloaca which now puckers open in pleasure.

“Keep pulling on that worm, mama. I want you guzzling it down whole as I fuck you.”

Holy shit. Ok. Whatever you say? I guess. I tug up-and-down on the tortured worm as the snail slugs himself on top of me. He slimes ring-around-my-asshole with his full bitty body. He tracks so gross and ooey-gooey. Sloppy! Grooley! Are the neighbors seeing this? Gahh, are the kids? No—I think they’re still blind at this point.

I’m the middle piece of an Eiffel Tower between a worm and a snail, and it’s peak ecstasy. The last time I felt this good was a year and a half ago, shortly after the birth of my very first brood. I’d discovered my mate’s true puke-colors once he fucked off someplace far away from the nest after our “ceremonial” hatching. My mother was kind enough to watch the chicks so I could take a weekend off. She’s dead now. I miss her. But I’d planned on flying down to Florida to visit my little sister during spring break. My plans were cut short, however, when I pecked up and swallowed a neon yellow pill with a happy face stamped on it from the parking lot of a Dunkin’ Donuts. I thought it was a mustard seed. Boy, was I wrong! But it needed to happen. That weekend, I cooped up in the “U” of “Donuts,” came on a loop, tweeted at God, and finally came to terms with meeting my mate where he’s at. He’d never change and I learned that I had to accept that.

Just as I now accept this sexy, trash-bag snail into my open cloaca. Slicked in his goop, my hole gapes wide to let him inside. I swallow him whole—it’s not like it’s hard; I mean, compared to an egg? Please. He snail-trails my guts as I gag on the butt of the worm. The snail dances a slow and steady waltz—and well!—with technique, his body like feet brushing across my colon floor. His tentacles and head bob with mine as I continue to tow, hungry to cum and swallow. The worm squirms against my tongue, but to its own demise and my delight. It loosens itself! The snail vibrates as he slithers deeper. My cloaca clenches as I prep to pull the gummy worm one last time. I tighten my beak’s grip around its ribbed meat and jerk my neck back hard. The worm pops out of the street like a cork from a bottle, and springs into the air. It’s so big! At least 12 inches! I open my little beak big and catch it as it falls. It slaps the roof of my mouth and twitches as I gargle it down my throat to meet the snail in my belly—I’M CUMMING! My cloaca pulsates as I cum, and shoots the snail out! He soars through the midnight air, drip-dropping our mixed secretions from his anatomy onto every blade of grass and voyeuristic critter. Finally—once I’ve finished cumming—he lands against the pavement with a SMACK!, fracturing his shell into crumbs.

I catch my breath and kegel my anus back behind my feathers before peering over my wing. If anyone witnessed that, I hope they’re too traumatized to ever speak about it. I take flight and land beside the injured snail. He’s naked. Armor-less. Unhoused. Homeless! And drenched in my ass juice and cum.

The delicate tentacles that once tickled my pink now reach for me as he says, “Please. Let me die inside of you, my dear sparrow. I’ve loved you all this time.”

I suppose I owe him for the best O of my life. And so I bow my great beak to his gross amoe-bod, then peck and swallow in pity.

Back at the nest, my chicks sing to see me: their mommy. I miss my mommy. They gasp to nuzzle into my breast. I let them, and regurgitate the snail’s remains into each of their hollow mouths. But not the worm. The worm is all mine.

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low stakes

high fan

hi fan!

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Far behind the boys, out of focus by the tiki bar, three women in bikinis deeply inhale, hold their breath, then claw their French tips into one another by the forked shoulder blades to form a circle. They’re triplets! Conjoined, they rotate clockwise, increasing speed as the wasted sun starts to set. Running in circles now, they struggle to keep their airways stuffed, their eyes rolling into the back of their heads like meatballs off the table. They collapse onto the sand and lay dormant for a few minutes.

Payton has a kitty cat back home; his mom and baby sister are watching her during this journey. He would like to find a cat-person that also enjoys country-pop music and “adventure.” Abel is a personal fitness instructor/influencer who is actively looking for a classy, gym-rat fiancé at Sparkle Ocean: “Sparkle Ocean is great, because everyone is here to find their forever person…or at least, that’s what we hope for” he tells the camera.

“I’ve got sand in my bottoms!” Tracey shrieks, coming to, scratching her bikini line. Stacey and Lacey rub their knockout eyes to open and heckle giggles at their sister, seducing the cameraman to their area of the beach – the bar. The current of the crew moves with the cameraman, luring Abel and Payton to follow after them like a couple of groupies or dragged about sea glass, past the compound of four white-curtained cabanas next to the tiled platform patio with a desert inspired firepit, indoor-outdoor landscaped grasses, ∞ pool, and tiki bar with a white sand floor, frosé, frozen margs, and daquiris always turned on to “churn”. Stacey and Lacey brush the dirty white sand from Tracey’s ass as she squirms and the three of them smile to the cameramen, Abel, and Payton. “We’re kinda weirdos” Stacey says, making everyone laugh both with and at them. “Who are you, guys?” Tracey pliés her eyes up and down, almost like a gyrate, obviously directed at the two topless boys.

The five of them snack on fresh pineapple slices and island girl cocktails at the firepit while they make introductions and look to the finishing sun. Lacey, Stacey, and Tracey were born in that order in Minnesota on the winter equinox: Lacey is a cat-person, phlebotomist. Stacey is a dog person, personal trainer. Tracey is a cat-person(?), lawyer. The three of them have always been best friends (“soulmates more than sisters”) and have never once been in any “real” disagreement with one another. “A triangle is the strongest shape” they murmur as they hold each other close and nuzzle their witchcraft into each others’ throats. Past seasons of Sparkle Ocean have promised them each a person if they just trust the process, and they do, as much as they trust each other. Payton only watched last season but is stoked to try anything in this world he can get his hemp-lotioned hands on. Abel loves how Sparkle Ocean grants us the opportunity to reveal the true self to a network of romantics and other young people ready to settle down, start a family. A thirsty, dry-earth fire reflects from his ridiculous eyes onto his American Eagle chest piece when he looks down to his bulked thighs and talks about all this. Suddenly stimulated by his proclamation, Lacey weeps into her palms. The crew dives onto her: the cameraman falls to his knees and tilts his equipment upward to catch her tears while the assistant camera bags a closeup of her wet cheeks. “Are you okay?” She is touched, triggered, and drunk, but sends loving-kindness to herself betwixt lion’s breath. Stacey and Tracey breathe beside her until she finally settles enough to speak: “I have never heard a man as hot as you speak that romantically before!” It’s true, Abel blushes, especially after he’s been wolfing down pink all night. “How do you feel about some alone time?” he asks Lacey, uprooting her by her tired wrists before she can assume her sisters’ approval. He pulls her to a rose petaled cabana, sits her on the buggy daybed, and confesses that he suspects she’s got feelings for him. The rest of the night is sweet with evening primrose flowering tops and footsie beneath the white sheets as Lacey and Abel graze each other to sleep in cabana 1 while Stacey and Tracey talk shit about hometown haters until they pass out across a senseless Payton in cabana 2. Overnight, Sparkle Ocean blesses their resting bodies with healing salt, minds with mortal worry, souls with moon shaft, and sex with succession.

Morning cums and hightide swells break onto Abel’s and Lacey’s briny feet like a mammoth lapping tongue, waking them into cobra pose. With a swan-strained neck, Lacey tongues Abel’s morning breath down for the squatting bedside camera crew. He tastes like salt water and throw up-in-his-mouth. She swigs his salt, absorbs his GERD. This is mhm crazy love. “I am here for you 100%, no doubt about it.” She grasps him firmly by the sandy helices. The cameraman positions himself behind Abel for an over-the-shoulder shot. “I’m falling for you...and it feels so right.” She pulls his face close to suck on his white tongue, then implants her acrylics into the space between his ears and sideburns, tugging downward. She shucks his ears from his cranium. He looks really silly when blood shoots out from both of his newfound ear holes: a spewing sprinkler or a liquified Pippi Longstocking! She laughs. It stings! He freaks out into a maniacal sprint, flapping his arms like propellers towards Sparkle Ocean, the cutie camera crew “still rolling” close behind him. He plunges into the water for relief but smacks his skull on a rotting reef instead. His hot corpse floats to the surface of the ocean face up, mouth open, ready to eat bird shit and score a crisp new tan. Lacey can’t believe he just did that. Why did he literally kill himself? Her shot at love is gone and she needs a drink.

“Hello and thank you for reaching out, Madison! There’s a first time for everything, but don’t worry, you’re in good hands. Happy to help you with your request.” – Danny

Danny—the older and more my “type” of the two prospective gigolos, all swole and hairy—sent me a screenshot of a table chart of his rates made in his notes app. Crafty! His rates ranged from 2 hours at $850 to 1-week at $27,000 USD. Outcalls only.

“Got it :),” I replied with a twitching eye, knowing full well that his rate would need to be negotiated down if he wanted a piece of this ass and at a hotel. I live with my mom for a reason. I am following my dreams (to get paid [a liveable wage] to write, and pay men to pretend to be in love with me until I find a man that I might actually fall in love with) while encouraging her to follow hers. So no, I don’t have a “job” right now. My job is to write, sell (my book and its merch, workshops, and whatever grubby treasures I find at the town’s trading post on ebay), read, edit, and beg on Instagram. I refuse to sell my own hole anymore, but you can buy My Gaping Masshole, my book about the hole I was born from on mygapingmasshole.com. I am giving myself until autumn to make “it” (real money by writing or at least a lit agent). If “it” doesn’t happen for me by September, I’ll revert to misery and stability, and apply for a corporate job. Yahoo!

Giacamo, the other escort—the more my age, pruned, and metrosexual of the two—delivered a much lengthier and more personalized response:

“Hi Madison, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And thank you for taking the time to read my reviews, that already tells me a lot about you. What you described is actually much closer to what I offer than people might expect. Some of my favorite experiences are exactly that: two interesting people stepping away from their busy lives for a few hours and enjoying something that feels natural, relaxed and real.

We could plan something simple and elegant [like] dinner, a drink, a movie, or just an easy evening where you get to feel taken care of without expectations or pressure. Chemistry and comfort always come first for me.

I also appreciate your honesty about not knowing what you’d want physically. That’s completely fine. I always let that part develop only if it feels genuine and mutual. For something like this I usually suggest a 3-hour date ($1,500) as a starting point, just so we have time to disconnect from the real world a bit and actually enjoy the moment. From there, we can always adjust depending on what you’re looking for.

To plan properly I would just need:

• Your approximate dates

• Where you’ll be staying in [redacted]

• What your ideal evening would look like

You already sound like someone I would genuinely enjoy spending time with.”

Eeeeek! Giacomo’s ChatGPT thinks I’m “interesting!” On effort alone, Giacomo won the battle of the escorts. But $1,500? Hell nah. But for the time being, why not cosplay as, and therefore manifest that I’d someday be, some hot rich bitch?

“Sounds wonderful and just like what I need!” I replied. “I was a provider before. The dates for when I’ll be in [redacted] should be solidified by the end of the month. I will let you know when I have a better idea :).”

“Sounds lovely. When you have your dates, feel free to reach out and we can see what we can create together. My schedule tends to fill in advance, especially in the spring, so once your plans are confirmed we can reserve something properly if it feels aligned. And for what it’s worth… you already seem like someone I’d enjoy taking out for a proper [redacted] evening. Talk soon, Madison.”

To close the inquiry, I sent him a gif of the blushing dove from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, because she’s so me when I have a crush. My love language is gifs. I send them to my friends, mom, OnlyFans fans, crushes, and ex-boyfriend—anyone I love, have loved, or am pretending to. They’re a better representation of my reactions than any casual text. My face can go cuckoo; it’s gotten me into an awful lot of trouble, shame, and fun. Once when I was in [redacted], an old man pedestrian stopped me on the crowded street to point at my smile and scold, “Does your face always look like that?” “Yes,” I said and frowned, then laughed behind his back. Once when I was in middle school and once again when I was in high school, some boys pulled their knives on me and I laughed Joaquin Phoenix Joker style. With much therapy and practice via mutual domestic violence, I’ve gotten better at realizing and expressing my anger. Right around the time I last had sex [with bathhouse butthead], I choked a dumbdrunk bitch out at an unhip nightclub I frequented in [redacted]. She had taken my tote bag and, when I politely confronted and corrected her on what I assumed to be a wasted mistake, she refused to give it back. My finger in her face, I warned her and her gay best friend again and again not to fuck with me because I am unwell! I said, “You really don’t want to do this…” but she wouldn’t listen! She wouldn’t let it go! She yanked the handle from my hands and repeated, “It might be my friend’s,” despite it promoting my beloved alma mater on its canvas front. So yeah, like a cartoon character, I grabbed her by the neck, wrung it, but stopped, dropped [her neck], and screamed for the bartender to get security before I hurt her. The dweebthieves realized that, no, I wasn’t going to let it go, so she gave me my bag back. Her friend apologized to me on her behalf; the gays get me. My friend didn’t exactly assure me, which made me feel like what I’d done was really bad. “Was that really bad?” I asked. Later, with newfound pride, shame, and obsession, I confessed my defensive transgression to my mom, ex-boyfriend, and therapist. The Holy Trinity encouragingly applauded me for my improvement. No shit, I would prefer to not jump straight to strangulation and start with a push or punch instead, but the body does what it knows, I guess. It keeps the score and choreography. And isn’t it better to do that when threatened than to laugh? My body is learning! How to demand no?

My ex is like a father to me. So, I jonesed like a junkie to update him on my life’s new purpose of self-correction through sexual solicitation, but my number had been blocked for the past few months. This happens often. And I get it—I do! Believe me! Of course! He has a family. Do your thing [without me]. I’ve been abandoned plenty. Don’t even worry. I see that you don’t! Believe me! What hurts is the ghost. It sparks intrusive thoughts and memories: he is dead, he was kidnapped, he’s in jail, he’s overdosed, he’s on a bender and on the run, he’s killed himself, he’s killed his family, he’s killed his family and himself, he doesn’t love me anymore and never has. Eventually, the panic fizzles out after enough time and cyberstalking to ensure that we’re all still breathing. The void became a blessing, granting me even more reason to hire a man to [pretend to] give any actual fuck. All my sorry life, I’ve been fueled by spite and the skanky desire to make “it.”

A month after I reached out to Danny and Giacomo, three things happened: the dates for my trip to [redacted] for the event were finalized, a sexologist/writer I knew published her very own article on hiring a male escort before I could publish mine, and my ex texted me. Before choosing the perfect man whore for my trip to [redacted], I jealously probed into the sexologist’s rendition of becoming “Jane.” This—hiring a man for my healing and public spectacle—was a novelty and fifth-wave feminist movement I’d wanted to officiate for nearly 10 years, but couldn’t [financially or psychologically] afford to do so. I’m a victim! Her experience, as recounted in her essay, however, proved to be very different from my voice and vision, so didn’t bother, but rather encouraged me. Yum yum enablement. And so the movement moves forward! Her essay focused on the psychophysiological humanities of their interaction—she is, afterall, a sexologist for men, specifically. Her motive for hiring “Giancarlo” was sexual pleasure and carnality for him to take the lead. He failed. In short (and soft), he couldn’t keep his dick hard when they fucked. His unprofessionalism to not stay erect jerked her into performativity to get him “there” (hard and cumming). Could her “Giancarlo” be my “Giacomo?” I DM’d her on Instagram, “Did you hire Giacomo?!”

“Haha yes!! Did you?”

Learning that Giacomo struggled to stay hard for this hot rich sexologist and fellow retired sex worker annoyed me, then allured me. Straight for pay? Easily intimidated? Thicker body preferences? Something against BlueChew? Disappointed and aroused—surprise surprise! I am that cliche. And competitive(!) when it comes to feeling chosen.

“Hey, sorry I know it’s lame I didn’t know but baby mama blocked your contact,” some new number texted me. I figured it was my ex but I asked, “Who is this?” anyway. We caught up on [family] life, romantic love or lack thereof, and his plans to get “his balls back.” I took advantage of our precious, limited time like prison visiting hours, and sent him the first essay of my male escort series, “Are You There Jane? It’s Me, Femcel: My Journey to Hiring a Male Escort,” which refers to him and our dynamic quite a lot. It’s important to me that he knows. It’s important to me that neither of us deprive the other of any potential happiness. I twiddled my thumbs and blushed like Snow White’s dove as I waited for his praise/approval (my fix).

“This writing is SO fucking good. This is real fucking writing goddamn, it’s a breathe of fresh air. I’m fucking laughing and engaged also so invested and like worried for you lol in the way you want to be when reading. God you’re fucking witty. I love your humor. An idiot only sees the sex, it’s so profoundly about one’s journey with self love. That was a privilege to read. Thank you for allowing me to be a tiny part of your amazing art.”

He sent me $100 via Apple Cash. Thanks, Dad. Love you. We flirted, vented, and fantasized about reuniting for all of two days before he ghosted me again. Thanks, Dad. Love you. I sent him back the $100 and text vomit:

Hope you are all okay. Hear from you in a few months or something xo / Jesus Christ I hope you are okay. Panicking / Let me know when you can. Sending love to you and yours / I feel like you’re fine and just made up with your girl which is fine. Wish you guys the best. Please refrain from reaching out when you’re bored or missing me with no real intention. Makes me feel like replaceable worthless shit. I am not a mistress or some good time call haha or at the very least, let me know you made a mistake and are back to playing house. I’m too traumatized to be ghosted if there’s no emergency. All the best, homie. / I AM NOT A TOY / I just want to blow it all up lol / So we’re forced to leave each other alone / Do you know how many times I’ve Googled your name today? / I’m just a stupid memory nothing piece of shit to you / And then you have a normal fucking life and I hate it / Shit is so triggering and I feel so small / Like I’m nothing / invisible nothing / worth nothing / who gives a fuck / I do unfortunately / It’s just mean. / Selfish and mean of you to do this to me. / I’m sensitive lol / Like why is that not clocking to you???? / I am not a toy to be played with / If you are not dead, in jail, or something I swear to GOD… / I feel dead inside lol but do hope you’re fine and just over it / I’m ok now lolol / I’m going to block just cause the inconsistency is really bad and painful for me. Hope you’re okay and safe. And as always, wishing you all the happiness and love. Thank you for reading my essay. / Jk, I’m leaving the line open just in case. Would appreciate it if you could just let me know that you’re alive. Don’t play with my little heart please. It needs love and consistency xx

Evidently, I figured my number had been blocked again, so I saved his new number as “Shithead,” and emailed him a request for confirmation that he was alive. He got back to me. “Yes and sorry for everything. We can’t talk again,” basically. Cool, whatever. Thanks, Dad. Same shit, different man. I texted Danny and Giacomo, “I hope you’ve been well! :) Are you free for an hour on the 30th? Would like to start with an hour to see if we vibe.” I chose not to allude to my scrawny budget—it’s not sexy to admit one’s insufficiency—but my need to “vibe check” was still true. I’d hate to have to spend 3 hours of my time or money with some strange dude if I hated him; I prefer coffee or FaceTime for a first “date” for this same reason. Danny’s response? Horrible. So sadly ick. Hot Male Escort Gives Jane The Ick! First, he reminded me of his two-hour minimum with a winky face emoji. Then when I said I completely understood but wasn’t interested in two hours, but wished him all the best, he replied, “I didn’t deny lol. For the first time I can do 1 hr for 550 but will depend on what time.” Goodbye. Giacomo, his presumed limp dick, and ChatGPT pimp won the war with:

“Hi :) I’ve been really well, nice to hear back from you. The 30th could work. What time were you thinking? Starting with an hour sounds perfect… we’ll see how the vibe feels and take it from there.”

“Wonderful :) early evening perhaps? 6 or 7 PM?” I asked.

“7 PM sounds perfect. My rate for an hour is $600, with a $200 deposit to secure the time and the rest when we meet. We’ll keep it relaxed and see how the energy flows from there…”

I sent him the $200 deposit, no further questions asked. With a week to prepare, I visualized the clothes I might wear and the room we might meet in. The hotel room had to be 1) within budget, 2) spacious enough for me to run and/or hide from him in, 3) equipped with a sofa or seating area separate from the bed, and 4) bubble bath friendly. I love baths (my cancer is sun and my leo is moon) and don’t have a bath at home, so it’s imperative that baby gets a bath, and a good one at that, when I’m paying to stay anywhere. My little ritual. My stale dog treat. So comfortable and home. A make-do luxury.

Finding the “right” room was harder than finding the “right” man. There weren’t many rooms that met my requirements within my budget, and that made me feel like a child. Embarrassed. I’m learning that it’s beneficial to everyone for the john or jane to have more money than not. No whore likes to work in a shit room. Most tricks don’t want to fuck in trash. It strips away the sexy, slow-zooms in on the sad. Rooms I digitally inspected were too small, bathless, or pissed on by ghosts of sessions or boyfriends past. I considered reaching out to an old Sugar Daddy to ask to use his $4-million apartment, because he’d previously let me use it for weekend stays and my 23rd birthday party, but decided against it when I remembered him as a man. I was certain he’d beg to watch my session with Giacomo, or install and hide a nanny cam inside of one of his children’s toys to watch and jerk off to later, and I just don’t have the time or mental capacity to deal with that. Finally, I unburied and booked an affordable-enough pink and grey semi-suite room with a bath, sofa, and rooftop pool at a 5-star hotel through a cashback app and with afterpay. Just $100 over budget, but this trick uses layaway! I did not choose it for its wall art or location.

Day of session. Two hours before it began (5 PM). I waddled into the still, boutique hotel lobby with a bunch of bags, tote and purse pockets stuffed to the max with comfy clothes, medication maracas (Sertraline, Clonidine, Hydroxyzine, Propranolol, Benadryl, Zyrtec, Zantac, and Ibuprofen), one plum purple lingerie set, bath bomb, razor, pair of hair scissors, hyaluronic acid, niacinamide, moisturizer, spf, body lotion, petroleum jelly, vibrator, vibrator charger, and my laptop. Earlier that day, I’d been a guest on a podcast, so I wore hot pink lipstick that matched my pink and black wrap dress, sparkly nylons, and dirty, fuzzy slide-on slippers. I lean towards disheveled, even when I’m done up. Some people and I think it’s cute. Some people and I don’t. I killed the concierge with kindness, because I’d read a few reviews that the hotel’s concierges could turn into bitches that rolled their eyes and piled on surprise additional charges if they didn’t like you. I doubted that was true, but wanted to be safe anyway. Always. Anyways… the room was great! Except for a ratty throw pillow and the wall art: an assemblage of wannabe film noir nature and portrait photography, obviously taken at [redacted] Park. Bigger than expected. Clean roomy. And that bath! Oh baby!

“At the hotel :),” I texted my mom who knows all about her femcel, retired whore, crazy writer daughter’s newest “thing” for soliciting men. I provided Giacomo with the address. I threw my hair up in a messy bun and kicked my pretty clothes off before grabbing the scissors and entering the shower. In that glass box and with those scissors, I trimmed my mangy bush, starting with the valleys of the “v,” working inward towards my innards. Pubic hair salon. Snip, snip. Sting. Oh? No! Did I just cut my lip?! It bleeds! My cunt! I cut my pussy. The slimy meat. It didn’t hurt; they’re tough down there. And so soft! I let it bleed, whatever, and turned the hot water on. I shaved my labia majora and asshole clean. Bush on top. Then my legs—not above the knee—which I also accidentally cut up. I scrubbed my skin, pits, crack, and lips with hotel soap to get the lipstick off. Squeaky clean and irritated! I never cared this much for a john, I thought.

A text from Giacomo: “I might be able to come a little earlier, would that work for you? No pressure at all, just let me know what feels best <3”

Before I replied, I slathered my body with green apple lotion, and globbed my bleeding cuts and lip with petroleum jelly. Slick like a virgin slug. I kept the day’s makeup on but blotted my oily skin dry with a cotton pad. The process of readiment was treasured. I hadn’t cared to prepare my full body for anyone in a while. I dry-swallowed a Propranolol and walked around the perfect room to air dry. Pink curtains, thick and wide. A scrumptious king sized bed. Fiji water and candy in the minibar. 2 bathrobes in the closet. A desk and stationary tray with a notepad, 2 pens, and a stack of envelopes. I moved the stationary tray to the coffee table in case I wanted us to doodle or play hangman. I put the remaining $400 in an envelope and set it on the desk. I texted him back: “Yes that works :).”

“On my way :) I’ll text you when I get there!”

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Picture this: you send your annoying, weird theater kid to a boarding arts high school in Massachusetts, where annual tuition tops $80,000, only for your obnoxiously chipper, overly-expressive child to be abused and called a “fat faggot” by their bitter, failed theater teachers. They’re publicly perceived and type-cast by adults who know little to nothing about their upbringing, identity, or dreams. Their peers are purposefully pitted against them, because competition is not only healthy, but also real life! They’re sucking their dorm parents’ dicks. They graduate from high school with an eating disorder, pill addiction, and butchered dreams. But hey! At least they’re not annoying and loud anymore!

Obviously, I am not and have never been a fat faggot. But I am and have always been a “hot” girl. A “day student” blessed with a hefty financial aid package, I didn’t board at my high school—and honestly, thank fucking God for that. Instead, I commuted two hours to and from school every day. Academic classes took place from 8 AM to 2 PM, and arts classes followed from 2 PM to 6 PM, sometimes later depending on whether you had rehearsal. At twenty-nine, I’m still catching up on missed sleep, so please excuse my yawns.

Before high school, I loved to perform. At public events, I’d stand on tables to steal the show and demand that everyone watch and applaud my “The Lollipop Guild” or “Let Me Entertain You” impression. Writing, since birth, was always my vice of choice, but I was genetically “gifted” at—and drawn to—being the center of attention, and so I was encouraged to lean into it. I prefer to do things I’m good at—hence why I don’t play sports. I took singing lessons, danced competitively (Irish step dancing and Latin ballroom), and starred in nearly every elementary and middle school play. Like many little girls, I was hyper-sexualized, but in a way I could comprehend as “gross” and inappropriate. At one brief family reunion, I proudly presented an action photo of me doing the Cha Cha to a decrepit distant uncle, to which he proclaimed, “Wow, what a figure! You’re going to be very sexy one day.” I told my mom, because she’d taught me that those kinds of comments were wrong, and we never saw him again. Other than that, I liked being seen. I wanted to be fucking famous, after all. Because, yes, duh: money! Attention! But also vengeance. I knew very early on in life that my dad was a crackhead, criminal deadbeat who wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. Much of my early childhood was spent daydreaming that I’d one day “make it” on the big and/or little screens, my dad would be forced to see my/his face plastered across billboards and prison TVs, and he’d either reach out or kill himself because wow, how could he have abandoned such a talented, successful, and beautiful child? My dreams were big, and I promised myself that I’d do whatever it took to reach them.

Cut to: high school. I am ruining my body and driving myself to psychosis by driving four hours every day to be abused. I pop Adderall to wake up and drink from a closet-concealed handle of Jim Beam to go to sleep. I am an honors student because, again—and I can’t stress this enough(!)—I’m gifted as fuck. I half-assedly excel in my academic classes and am a worthless piece of shit in my musical theater classes.

My acting teacher, a washed-up butch dyke who’d once been on Broadway, loved to break her students. “I can tell that you don’t want to be here. Why the fuck are you even here? Do you know how many kids would kill to be in your shoes? GIVE ME MORE! You could be so good—better than all these other kids—but you’re not. You suck. You don’t even try. You don’t even care. Lazy! How dare you? You’re smart. I know you think you’re smarter than everyone else. What are you trying to prove? Being smart doesn’t make you a good actor. Spoiled brat.” One time, she threw a chair at one of my peers mid-scene. Like, bruh, was his monologue so fucking serious? 😭 Psycho bitch. I knew she so badly wanted to make me cry. That was her thing. She’d tear a kid’s asshole apart in front of the class and somehow, suddenly, they’d be rewarded with praise the next class. So, obviously, I never cried in front of her. So, obviously, she continued to make an example out of me.

My musical theater teacher, I generally liked. She was at least cute and kind. She was also my only encouraging theater teacher. My voice was more operatic than belty, so she treated it as a novelty. Still weird as fuck though! Most of the songs assigned to me were about being a cock-obsessed slut or sex worker: “Love For Sale” by Cole Porter, “You Are Woman, I Am Man” by Barbara Streisand and Omar Sharif, “The Snake” by Al Wilson (which I interpreted as being about a dick because I was fifteen years old), and more I can’t even remember.

The theater faculty never cast me—not once!—because, and I quote, I’d “stand out too much in an ensemble.” Okay, so make me a leading lady? The fuck? I was cast once—not by my teachers, but by a senior, some “straight” dude in the theater department known for having a chode. My role, “The Other Woman,” was to seduce and make out with a scene partner I fucking hated onstage. I had one line, and was directed to just “wear my own clothes”: a mini skirt from Urban Outfitters, ripped fishnets, combat boots, and a crop top. So much of my time was spent “rehearsing” my thirty seconds of teenage porno fame, kissing and groping some ugly nerd asshole freak with boogers and crusty lip corners. Rehearsals went on until 9 PM. I was exhausted, sick, and just… didn’t want to do it. My poor immune system! My poor brain! I cringed, picturing my mother and older sister: front row, supportive bouquets of flowers in their laps, watching their baby tongue some twerp in front of a gaggle of strange adults. Wow, Madison! Great job! You’re a star!

I told the director of the theater department that I didn’t feel well—I had strep—and that I simply didn’t want to do the scene. I live far away! Why do I have to rehearse this? The scene doesn’t need to exist anyway! Just cut the scene, please! Add a little line about him cheating in the next scene. It’s that easy! I was scolded for being ungrateful and forced to perform.

Shortly after this “big break,” I applied to the school’s creative writing department, was accepted, and said “fuck you” to the theater department. Bye, perverted freaks! Thanks for perceiving and pushing your perceptions onto me! As previously mentioned, the theater faculty knew literally nothing about me. They didn’t know that I was a close-to-full-scholarship student. They didn’t know that I came from a single-mother household. They didn’t know that I commuted four hours every day. They didn’t know I was diagnosed with PTSD at fourteen, two years after I was sexually assaulted, stalked, and bullied because of it in middle school. They didn’t care to ask! They held no space for students to come to them. And even if they had, I’m not a squeaky wheel. I’m more of a shut-the-fuck-up-and-stop-complaining kind of bitch.

I stopped singing and acting altogether. It panicked me. Instead, I leaned into my sexuality—the one-trick-pony performativity and easy attention of it.

I’m not dumb; I know my past involvement in the adult industry isn’t entirely their fault. But they are part of the holistic tumbleweed that contributed to my self-perception and decision-making prefrontal cortex maturation. As a kid, I entered the theater department bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, confident that I’d surely become some kind of ingénue, and left with the realization that I’d only ever be perceived as a slut. Too slutty for the ensemble. Too slutty to be a leading lady. Was this because I’d been sexually assaulted when I was twelve? Is “ran through trash bag” written across my fucking forehead for all to see and exploit?

Whatever. I now know that they’re nothing and no one. Thank God for aging and therapy.

Within a week of being in the creative writing department, my teachers could tell that, yes, I was talented, but very obviously unwell. Just read my work, Jesus Christ! Hear me! See me! Hello? Use your brains! Look at the subtext! Your brains are fully formed, after all! They talked to me (privately), got to know me, and supported my crazy accordingly like fucking adults.

Dr. Drew Pinsky: marry me?

Then, the motivation for paying for a man was life experience. Vengeance through benevolence. Another wild story to add to my stack. Now, at twenty-nine, tucked in bed with a nesting dachshund between my legs—the closest companion I have to a husband—and my goodnight-girl cartoon on to self-soothe, I scan for a man in earnest. More sad and sweet than sexy or funny. I’m healing from many things, like all the time. ‘Tis life! I hate it here (2026). I miss having a boyfriend. I miss having a crush. I miss high school, when boys would at least pretend to like me to get in my pants. I turn to the catalogs of mixed-bag man-bods when I’ve had it up to here! with what’s being offered to me on the dating apps and in my DMs. For the love of sex, acquire some swag! Open a door, ask me a question, order a car, make me laugh, pump my gas. I’m at the point where I’d rather pay a [professional] man to roleplay having an interest in me than go on a very real, dumbdumb horny date with a man who has any actual interest in me. Little Miss Picky. Little Miss Unimpressed.

The last man I had sex with was a dummy. Chosen because, “good enough,” like a dented dolly from the thrift store. Hot enough with yankable thick brown hair, a short boxed beard, bad tattoos, and a cocky little-fucker attitude—just how I like ‘em. Extra points for having a cool ex-girlfriend. I’d gathered from his old Instagram posts that she was beautiful, weird, and successful, and that they were still friendly with one another. Green flag. Her association vouched for him.

About a month before we boned, he took me on a date to a sardined, trendy bathhouse in [redacted]. A good concept for a date, I’ll give him that, and that’s just so like, wow!, these days. He showed up to the bathhouse high on a “microdose” of mushrooms, which may have spiritually moved him to be forthright with me when I asked, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” In the room-temperature bath, he confessed to a shameful past and I promised not to tell. In the salt pool, he confessed to me, a retired sex worker, that he “used to be addicted to hiring” and has “always felt a connection to sex workers,” despite never having sold any hole himself. No. I have a way of either comforting or intimidating people—I can’t tell which—so much so that they’re eager to share their shit with me. It’s probably because I share so much of my own shit that it makes people feel special, like I’m letting them in on some big shit secret. But what they don’t realize is that they’re not special—I just have OCD. They also don’t pick up on that I—despite my devilish delight—am judging them. “Testing them,” my therapist once noted. It’s a quality that makes me feel a little evil, but also safe and smarter than most people. Early in the date, I concluded that he was neither my future husband nor boyfriend, but could maybe serve as a low-stakes meat puppet to try sex with after a year and a half of not having any.

A few weeks later, I drove back to [redacted] to finish two final sessions of a trauma therapy program I’d been in for the past year—I had gotten too “well” and made too much progress to keep working with them (boo!)—and to help my friend and client, a big-tittied OnlyFans creator and comedian, film lewd-barely-nude content for her page. Sex work money, good. Sex work, bad (for me). So “management” was a natural next step for my haggard sex brain.

On the pullout couch in our hotel room, I itched for body. Touch-starved and lowkey horny, I texted my ex—we were together in college. Not to bootycall (I wish), don’t worry; he doesn’t even live here (in this shit country) anymore. I demanded that he send me thirst traps of his big arms and pretty boy smile, and then bitched and moaned like a whiny teenage loser a fat paragraph about how I hadn’t been fucked in over a year, modern man’s failures to seduce me, having to end the only good therapy, and how much I missed him drooling next to and soaked inside of me.

He was someone I could rely on to gift me intimacy. We had pep talks bro-to-bro, digitally: every kind of intimacy shared but the physical, because of our distance, history, and his new live-in girlfriend.

“Why isn’t there a charity for poor traumatized women?” I continued after his marble-flexed biceps burst through the blue bubble.

“You’re not poor, you’re an artist,” he texted back. “A traumatized artist.”

His dismissal to reduce me to my womanhood and paycheck fucked me. Sweetly but jealously, I pictured him with another woman. A European escort with brown hair, beauty marks, and a thick ass in some satin-stained bed of some red light district. Many times, he’s confided in me that in the past four years since he’s seen me last, he’s hired women who look similar to me to act like me. “Like a bitchy, bratty girlfriend.” He calls them Madison. I bet he fucks me/them real hard. I don’t judge him. That’s love! It’s romantic! I know he knows I take it all: the flattery, the shank—he’s awfully smart like that. Twins! Our pandrogeny. Sometimes, I question if the love he shares with/for me/us is true, if not at all embellished. I wonder if he’s afraid of me. Maybe he (sometimes) wants to keep me happy so I don’t fuck with him and email his girlfriend, or post on Instagram or a “Are We Dating The Same Guy?” Facebook page, or write a book about us. Maybe it’s pity or guilt that makes him respond to me. Maybe he just wants to keep me around as an option for if we’re ever in the same country, both of us looking for a sad, perfect fuck. Maybe we have a trauma bond. Or maybe! He still loves me. The truth is, I try not to care about the truth. It aches so throb. The edge goes crazy. What a lucky motherfucker to have loved me in love with him.

While my friend took a bath, I opened up an escort site and found a twinky looking man 18 miles away. Not my typical “type” but handsome, well dressed, and seemingly approachable. Heterosexual: women and couples only. That’s important to me, I’ve noticed. A testament to my internalized homophobia and, therefore, misogyny, methinks! Daddy issues? Duh. Should I have forced myself to buy a bi-guy? No. This was about objectification. Fantasy. I was playing gluttony. His name: Thomas. I imagined a session with Thomas, imagining Thomas as my ex while texting my ex. How could I emulate our dirty familiarity with a stranger in an hour?

I texted him, “Hi Thomas! Do you provide just snuggles?”

He replied, “Absolutely! Snuggling, head rubs, massages wherever you need it the most.”

“Lovely :) I’m really just looking for someone to pretend that they’re in love with me lol more of a companion/friend than a sexual arrangement. Snuggle buddy, etc.”

“Companionship is necessary in this world. I would be glad to help. Do you have any other questions or concerns?”

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My daddy is American Gothic 24/7, not Party City or seasonal!

My daddy has slate Rock for brains, head, shoulders, knees, and talons, so I can’t bring that guy with me anywhere!

My daddy is Guardian grotesque, the voluntary embodiment of chronic constipation. Look at how

he Ornaments the floor with his chosen lumpish body, jump scaring our guests sometimes into laughter into the living room.

My daddy stays Yoked without lifting a damned dope finger.

My daddy just Lurks in his shadowy section of the apartment, hoarding dusty Welcome-Homes behind his folded knees.

My daddy wishes Evil upon just about everybody but me, because I’m the only one who lies with him in house moss and blubbers prayers into his ears, tickling his caked canines, poking his inflamed nostrils, plugging away at any sign of life.

He shakes my Yoo-hoo before I drink it,
He smacks the bottom when my bottom
needs it.
What a great name
for a Great Dane –

Danny,
the first time I came was to
Dane Cook’s uncut
“Good Luck Chuck” and I
have prayed to meet my soulmate afterwards
every single
time:

A pig’s soft snout,
sleeping bag
rolling around on the floor. That’s
me and I’m

dirty.

I want to play cat
fish
with his ex wife
and her cornball
GBF with a podcast, and
gut their lay hearts
like fibbers, fishes, with
perfect bad men that have
money
body
charm
beards and maybe
even babies so sweet but
hard to chew.

Wash
your fucking hands, your
dick is spewing raw
Philadelphia Amish milk
at this point - just
look! - like literally filling up
cunts and your own brown
eyes.
MENTALLY I’LL COME TO

CORRECT WHAT YOU WANT ME TO
if only you had gushed it down soft.

Everyone’s talking about—analyzing, hot-taking, meme-ing, and relating to—Maddy Perez’s “look” at Cassie and Nate’s wedding in Season 3, Episode 3 of Euphoria. The cunty green dress she wears, of course, but the internet is more hyper-fixated on her frown and tears preceding her walkout at the wedding reception. “Do you know why Maddy looks so sad at Cassie’s wedding?” “POV watching those who broke your heart being happy together.” “This is what a broken heart looks like.” “She’s not mourning Nate, she’s mourning Cassie.”

Most of the online discourse I’ve found focuses on Maddy’s heartbreak; whether that heartbreak is over Nate, Cassie, or both is up for debate in the comments. I watched the episode last night, and what I saw in Maddy’s “look” was, yes, a heart breaking—but it was breaking not over a person or people, but her lack of wealth.

Like Maddy, I was raised by an overworked and undertipped mom with an upper class clientele in the beauty industry. Much of my childhood was spent in hair salons or at New England housewives’ seaside mansions while my mom broke her back to wash their scalps in farmhouse sinks or jacuzzi baths while they moaned, yawned, and yapped about their rich people problems: husbands cheating (again), crazy nosey neighbors, their children enrolling in their least favorite Ivy League schools. There were perks, many: hand-me-down designer clothes and luxury cars, summer babysitting gigs, impressive job references, and an insight into the life and mannerisms of rich folk. I learned very early on how rich people want you—an impressive “poor” person—to look, speak, act, and treat them. In addition to my good grades, these “skills” or cons helped me get into prestigious programs like private art high school with close to full scholarships. I’ve always had peers and friends with more money than me because of this. Some lower-class (we clock and find each other easily in these environments), many middle- and upper-middle-class, and a few insanely wealthy.

Socioeconomics didn’t really matter to art school kids. What mattered most was good taste: what you wore, how you wore it, and how good your art was. I thrived, and was adopted by some lovely spoiled rotten babies for my cunty, haggy ways. Class differences didn’t come up much in school, since most students boarded there, so were provided an equal slate. They were obvious, though, when we’d leave school grounds for weekend trips to NYC or slumber parties at my apartment. My lower-middle-class normality was spectacle for them. Their upper-class luxury was spectacle for me. We’d take turns experiencing each other’s lives, taking pictures and videos of it, and sharing it all on social media. Rich people like it when you give it to them straight. So when they’d ask me to clean their rooms or massage their backs because they’d just ordered us a five-star dinner, I’d say, “Go fuck yourself,” and they’d clap.

Of course, I was jealous. Of course, I am jealous of nepo-babies and friends from college or high school with two functioning parents who don’t need to work or worry about their own or their parents’ bills and can spend all the time they want making art or writing. “You just need to write,” I’ve heard from peers and friends with trust funds and daddy’s allowances far too often. While I love them, I disdain them. Like Maddy, I am smarter, hotter, more hardworking, more worldly, more out-there, and more talented than most of these blessed bitches. I know that, and a lot of them know that too. So they disdain me back.

I’m sure Maddy feels many things as she watches her ex-best friend marry her ex-boyfriend. But it’s important to note that Nate’s always been a gateway to the gated life Maddy’s lived to want. Her heartbreak is less about a man, less about a friend, and more about the death of opportunity. Cassie, who was once Maddy’s socioeconomic equal and best friend in high school, takes and lives her dream. While we, the viewers, know it’s fantasy, Maddy doesn’t. She sees them as rich—tacky and with disgusting taste—but rich nonetheless. It’s how I feel when I stalk my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend’s Instagram pages. They are both well-off and so fucking bland. It’s how I feel when forced to tour a friend’s new poorly decorated McMansion.

Imagine what Maddy’s wedding or life would look like if granted the same budget. Imagine what my wedding or wardrobe or life or work would look like if granted the same budget. It would be nothing short of spectacular.

When she’s three, more stable and flirtatious, she will bathe again amongst Barbies and big boats. She will look me in the swollen eyes, and ask, “Mommy, would you like some of my milk?” proving her right nipple to me. I will tilt my head back and criticize her for not knowing that that’s not how things work.

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Gods, Monsters,
airheads with honors—
HairBrained. Looney Tunes!
The bedazzled American returns to do-right.

Breakout the son in law, mummy, and scout!
Crash! Blast the school!
The center of the family man? Quiet.
Vengeance. Nut moon. Secret
ties to earth jungle, flower.

Karma chronicles the past. Time
in the back of the pawn shop—

still breathing
the last job.

References:
https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000409/

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Light enough to not bleed, the tattoo healed very quickly. It scabbed a bit beneath his bangs and itched for about a week. Instead of scratching it, Shaggy moisturized it with a car floor Chapstick as often as 5 times a day. Classic cherry. He tended to it like a baby until its permanence was confirmed, and then he would let people lightly touch it as if it were a Purple Heart. Scooby Doo traced the same line with his tongue kisses nearly every single night until the tattoo slightly eroded 20 years later. Every night was boys’ night in the van with Scooby Snacks, Scooby kisses, and Scooby Dooby Doooooooooooooo!