Licorice Pill

I think a lot
of people are afraid
of how they want
to be raped or killed

(or both). It’s funny
that that’s like, a truism
in psychoanalysis,
whose defanging is so

complete we can’t
even talk about that
now—back to where
we started. I bleed

copper moons onto
the pillowcases
instead of answering
your texts. I want

a dick in me
so huge I forget
everything I owe,
which is what

I tell the internet
in not so many words
to poison my target
-ed ads forever

like sea salt
corroding chrome
when habitually

Second Shooter

Kyle caught me cheating because he saw my predictive text had a bunch of sadistic shit in it he knew I never sent him. I typed My and he saw it suggested little and then faggot or sissy or slut. I had developed an interest in something very specific: I was finding guys online with big cocks who were also deeply, incorrigibly submissive. It’s not that sex was bad with Kyle—he was hung, and competent—it’s just that sometimes we would be in the middle of a good fuck and he would say something like Lex, I’m going to ruin you, you’ll never feel this full again, and then I’d have to choke back this inner laugh because of course that wasn’t true. And it’s not like I think he really believed it, I know that’s just the shit people say during sex, but the way it imbued him with this kind of absolute confidence turned me off so much I wouldn’t be able to cum. (I’d have to wait until he passed out after IPA number four or five and then use the toy I kept in the shed; that way I would be authentically sore the next morning, when he asked.) I couldn’t tell him that, either, since then he’d get a whole complex about it, but after a while I knew I needed someone whose dick wasn’t disappointing but who was also a little more existentially honest. And it turns out there are a lot of men like that (though I never called them men in messages) online. They got off mostly on an easy routine—some of them I just chatted and told how much pain I’d put them through and what they’d need to do to express their gratitude properly. The ones into harder stuff, like who wanted me to seriously injure or kill them, I blocked. But there were a couple guys I did meet up with, mostly because the pictures they sent me were impossible to believe and also because, in person, they paid more. One guy wanted me to take pictures and send them to his wife. I thought that was a completely insane idea, but he paid for the burner and when I did it he came so hard and so much I thought there must be some kind of prop, a prosthesis, something. The next time I saw him I made him edge for two weeks in preparation, which I charged him extra for. Then I “made” him cum in me and “forced” him to eat it out of my pussy. As he left he paid me $8,000 cash, in annoyingly small, variegated bills. When I got home Kyle was already asleep and the shed stayed safely locked all night.