Slash or Smash (Festive ASF)

by Dee Garcia

Call me Myrtle and strap a Life Alert around my neck because the thought of leaving the house after ten pm makes me wanna “slip” down a flight of stairs.

I’d much rather rot on the couch with a cozy sweater and my third pumpkin spice latte of the day, while reading a smutty book or rewatching Halloween movies.

the more time passes, the more I realize I’m just over the party scene. My 20s were full of it, and while I wouldn’t change a thing about that era, I’m in my 30s now. I want to experience new things and make fresh memories that don’t include me being drunk off my ass and having a nasty hangover the day after.

There’s truly nothing sexier than a confident fat girl who simply doesn’t give a fuck…and I don’t have a single one to spare.

It actually hurts my brain. How they can fit something so grand in this building doesn’t compute. Like, the math ain’t mathing.

And yet…I’ve never felt more alive, out here living my best masked man fantasy as if they couldn’t turn on me and actually kill me any second now. Either I have a few too many screws loose or I read too much smut for my own good. Probably both.

I haven’t understood the whole masked man hype tearing through social media, but I get it now. The sight of him getting off in that damn Ghostface mask is really doing it for me, so much that I have to ease up.

Between the kidnapping, sucking their cocks, watching them engage with one another, and now this—I’m worked up to the point of no return. The need to come is unbearable.

Audrey loops her arm through mine and yanks me down the sidewalk. “You fucked them, didn’t you?” I snort a laugh, but nod regardless, a shit-eating grin splitting my face in two. “Oh, I so fucked them, and it was better than a pail full of candy. Happy Halloween to meee.”