I am drunk and if I allow my head to fall back, my hair tickles the top of my spine which arcs downward. It's a beautiful feeling and I am all the more beautiful now that I've had it...
     All those secret feelings I can't share, little lovers I keep in my skin. I am tempted to scream something new, something I have never before said: I have been fucked (this is a secret, I'm sure), no one knows. Just dirty enough to make screaming it feel special.
     Instead, I talk about blow jobs I've given.
     When the wind comes through the car it grabs my ear, "Is there any way we can get her to a shut up?" he asks – If you ever want your dick sucked, you'd better be able to put up with hearing about it. It's very hippo-critical of you. It's no shame – admitting I have done what men wanted.



About the author:
Samantha Ducas has been published in Somewhat, In Posse, Thieves Jargon, Spoiled Ink, and Ethereal Green, to name a few. She lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her husband.

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