Page 35 of Morsel

One day, her tongue flickers over her bottom lip, and it sends chills straight to my groin.

“And at the lowest point, when the soul seems to be eaten alive, that’s when true art is born,” she says.

In my mind, I pull pieces of her flesh from her skull and run my fingers over what’s left of her tongue nub.

“Is that why you created the exhibition on sex worker trauma?” a student asks. “The recent one at Sway?”

“Sex work is art too,” Mona says.

“They were being paid. It’s about capitalism,” the student next to me chimes in. “Money means capitalism.”

“Capitalism and sex,” another student says. “That’s what sex work is. Duh.”

Mona’s eyes are hooked on mine as she speaks. “Every interaction we have is about the consumption of the other.”

And just like that, I know she’s teasing me. Begging me to be patient. To wait for her sweetest treat.

The next few weeks are like a loud, empty stomach, until she finally reaches out while I’m at the processing plant. My phone buzzes on the break room table. Her name fills the device’s screen, and my stomach lodges in my throat.

I’ve got a surprise for you, Mona texts. Can I come over?

The urge to play hard to get surfaces. If she’s going to make me wait, I want to make her wait too. Besides, my excuse isn’t a lie.

I’m at work, I reply.

Call out, she sends.

No question. No request. No hesitation. It’s a fucking demand. Mona is calling the shots again, and though some buried part of me is pleased that she finally wants to see me, a bigger voice demands to be heard too.

She can revoke your power, Artemis’s voice booms in my mind. I’ve ruminated over his words so many times I can’t remember what he actually said anymore. Every warning sounds like him now, his stupid words regurgitating society’s expectations. She’s the one in control, he says. She rules over you.

My stomach drops. I have to take back control.

Can’t, I text.

She responds with an unhappy face.

I gaze at the big window, giving a view of the processing plant’s main floor. I zone in on the furnace in the corner.

A hand slaps my shoulder.

“This bitch’s pussy was unreal,” Jerry says. “I ate her like a tuna sundae.”

“Tuna sundae?” some new guy with a shaved head asks. “The fuck does that even mean?”

“Pussy is tuna, right?” Jerry explains. “But add ice cream cum and shit.”

“You ate her cum and her shit?”

Jerry rolls his eyes. “Come on, man. You know what I mean. I didn’t eat her shit. I just know she tasted good.”

My dick pumps with blood, my erection growing to half-mast at his words. It’s been too long since I tasted Mona’s skin.

“How good?” I ask.

“Like a creamy little fish sandwich,” Jerry says. “She came like a waterfall too. I showed that pussy who owns it!”

We both laugh, and he pulls out his phone, then scrolls through his gallery to show me a picture.

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