An alternative that had always existed in theory but, for her at least, had always been out of reach. She remembered very well how, only six months ago, she had looked down from her balcony. And the thing that had stiffened her neck mumbled to her through her throat, “I don’t understand how people do that to themselves.” She just didn’t understand. But now she does. Not that she has to do it, but the alternative exists. Like a driver’s license, like a visa to the United States. Something she can take advantage of, or not. There was a time when she wouldn’t do that for guys—suck them off, go down on them, give head, blow them—it’s interesting how all those names they invented for it sound so disgusting. Maybe it was the names that repulsed her. But not anymore. Not that she thought it was so great. But she could do it when she thought she should. Another alternative. Then they’re in bed and she has that aftertaste in her mouth. Kind of salty-sticky. Something between pretzels and fish.
What do You think about The Girl On The Fridge: Stories?
