A Certain Hunger

by Chelsea G. Summers

One learns so much about a person when one merely wants to fuck him.

Preverbal, love is the smell of a known body, the touch of a recognized hand, the blurred face in a haze of light.

It’s such an intimate thing, to witness another’s death. Orgasms are a dime a dozen. 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.

I learned that being female is as prefab, thoughtless, soulless, and abjectly capitalist as a Big Mac. It’s not important that it’s real. It’s only important that it’s tasty.

I like it when men look at me as if they want to devour me. I find it deeply entertaining.