A Certain Hunger

by Chelsea G. Summers

Any old human woman can see a man orgasm. We so rarely get to see them die; it has been my greatest gift and my most divine privilege.

Emotional attachment is for children, and sentimentality is for great meals you’ll never eat again.

I don’t know who I am if I don’t write.

never looked twice at girls. I gave it a go; you know, when in Rome and all that—Boston was positively seething with lesbians—I don’t like to be left free of a fad.

There’s a perverse pleasure in bringing someone to a truth about herself that she has long repressed.

Some men need to witness female anger to believe in that woman’s love. Some women need to get angry to experience that love.

Fucking, metaphorical or literal, is New York City’s soul. Fucking with, fucking up, fucking over, fucking around, fucking right: New York Fucking City has earned its name.

am visceral and I am lazy. I like my truffles like I like my men: Italian.

His head lying on my left breast, Andrew sighed deeply. “It’s really nice to see you.” He snuggled his face into my bosom and sighed again. “It feels like the last decade was a dream.” He nosed closer to my heart. He needed to die.

We as an English-speaking people can’t not eat our dead—our language loves a cannibal. We don’t just win at sports, we kill the other team; we demolish them; we devour our opponents. To express our appreciation for a baby’s cuteness, we say we could eat her up. When we have sex, we ravish our lovers, nibble their ears, lick their vulvas, or swallow their cocks. Gleeful, we banquet on flesh.

Rich, well-bred men have the best hygiene. “Eat the rich,” they say, and in this they are not wrong.

Only intellectuals are more gullible than idiots.

I

can’t say enough good things about sex with engineers. Sensuality hides in the dark, dim recesses of the mathematical mind.

though one woman’s mercy is another man’s murder.