Pizza Girl

by Jean Kyoung Frazier

It was impossible to deny the thing wasn’t at least a little sexual. I was masturbating every morning in the shower again and, unlike the past weeks, I was able to orgasm. Now my mind had something concrete to focus on—baggy stained shirts, jeans that sagged sadly, crinkled eyes, a ponytail that I wanted to wrap around my fist, pull against my face, rub over my eyes, ears, nose, mouth, see if it had the power to improve my senses, what did pepperoni and pickles taste like on her tongue, I often pictured us standing close but not touching, just saying “Hey” back and forth, her breath meaty and sour. I did my best not to think about any of this on the nights Billy and I fucked.

If I’d wanted to write haikus about Becky’s moles, I needed to write epics about Jenny’s collarbones.

Because you know what I’ve learned, no matter how long I wait? That I will never be someone that is effortlessly good, it’ll always be hard work for me, and I’m not that strong.

think some people are just born broken. I think about life as one big Laundromat and some people just have one little bag to do—it’ll only take them a quick cycle to get through—but others, they have bags and bags of it, and it’s just so much that it’s overwhelming to even think about starting. Is there even enough laundry detergent to get everything clean?”