Читать книгу Exhibitionist - Molly Cross-Blanchard - Страница 6

The most orgasms I ever had in one go

come over Christmas vacation

in my childhood basement bedroom:

door cracked open, sheets

peeled back, pussy

in plain view of the cat

clawing carpet. Is this how flashers feel

in their trench coats and

chest hair? I’d like to sit

in the park with my thumb stuck

up my nose and wait

for someone to notice. I want to be more

like the woman in Burger King

who eats fries straight off the floor,

the woman who cries in Walmart

when her preteen son says Fuck you, Mom

for the first time in front of the greeter

yanking carts. At the strip club

I eat onion rings, watch the dancer

watching me from upside down

in her halo of light. When will my roommate notice

the way I air-dry underwear on the corner

of the hallway mirror, symbol of sex

in his reflection? I want to feel

like a display-model lipstick — dug-at nub

smeared across the mouths of strangers, a much-handled

sample of the real thing.