Fragments (Alabaster Penitentiary, #4)

by Nyla K.

I like them. Bruises remind me that I’m alive and susceptible to hurt. Like when I was twelve and I used to cut myself. Just to feel.

“You are such a worthless little slut.” “Ooh, Daddy,” I hum. “Talk dirty to me.”

I know it’s a hard thing for people like my parents to understand, but it is fully possible to become genuinely close to people you’ve never actually met IRL. It’s the way of our generation, after all.

“The thing about evil,” she whispers, “is that it masquerades as good. True evil doesn’t look like a monster with horns and a forked tongue. It’s beautiful, charming, and powerful… An exceptional liar, and a master at manipulating its camouflage.” She falls quiet once more. And I sit, helpless, with my mind aching in emotional logic. “There are no heroes in this world, Lex. Just villains with a better disguise.”

It’s about the people who act like they have the citizens of this country’s best interests at heart, when in actuality, they’re using us as pawns in their fucked-up games. When they’re not actively chewing us up and spitting us out, that is.

As enlightened as humanity is pretending to be in this leg of the twenty-first century, they’re still pretty much the same people who burned women at the stake for being different.

Back to the point, regardless of how woke society claims to be, they still put a stigma on people who love sex. The notion that all sex workers are diseased, toothless drug addicts living in the bathrooms at Port Authority is still very much alive, and it’s extremely offensive. In general, if you love sex and want to have it with lots of people, you’re looked upon as a damaged creature.

Of course, casual and frequent sex is more widely accepted in the gay community than it is for women, which just hurts my heart for all the ladies out there who love a big dick—real or fake—and want to have their hair pulled and their insides jabbed at on the regs by whoever the hell they please.

They treat me like I’m some queer spider, luring them into my web of gayness. As if they weren’t fully aware that they liked to fuck men before I came along.

I just wanna kiss his cheeks and squeeze his butt.

I’m not sure if what he’s struggling with is thinking he might be gay, or bi… Or if he’s just realizing that sexuality can be fluid, and enjoying something new doesn’t have to be scary. But I’ve seen it enough times in my life to know that the circumstance is only that. Prison doesn’t turn you gay. Nothing does. Your sexuality is a part of you that’s always been there, something you discover and develop over time. I hope he’s starting to see that.

“For my sexy little tomato.” My gaze narrows. “Why am I a tomato?” He leans in, poking my chin with his fingertip. “Because you’re a fruit and no one knows it.”

I’m working toward a progressive view of my sexuality. For now, I’m just calling myself queer, because I think that’s what I am. Maybe bi, maybe pan, maybe omni. Who even knows, really… I’m still figuring it out, but isn’t that the point? Sexuality isn’t necessarily something you’re going to pin down from age whatever to the end of your life. It’s likely to change as you change and grow as a person.

Even if it destroys me in the process, from such a sweet, beautiful scorching flame… I can’t help but crave his burn.

“Are you a parking ticket?” He’s already cracking up while I hold in my own giggles as best I can. “Wha—” “’Cause you’ve got FINE written all over you,”

Son of a motherfucking bitch, holy shit fuck, what a fucking orgasm… And my legs are giving out. Yup, there they go. I’m falling…

“No one’s ever belonged to anyone harder than you belong to me.”

“Hey… are you a Microsoft?” He grins huge, biting his lip. I lift my brows, waiting for it. “’Cause you’re crashing at my place tonight.”