Maeve Fly

by C.J. Leede

To witness people giving themselves over fully to fantasy, to participate in it.

There are two things I despise in this world above all others: the first is when a person forces you to guess something as though you are a psychic or a child or could possibly be interested enough in their lives to expel brainpower to feed their narcissistic tendencies, to observe them fully and regurgitate some aspect of that observation back to them to their ultimate satisfaction, swallowing it all down like a grateful little porn star swallowing a big heaving helping of—

“Winds mean fires too,” I say. “Beauty always brings destruction.” I roll my eyes.

Human life is human culture, and people who feel that the existence of one type is of greater value than another frankly seem to be the most uncultured of all.

I have never understood, and still do not understand the notion that a woman must first endure a victimhood of some sort—abandonment, abuse, oppression of the patriarchy—to be monstrous. Men have always been permitted in fiction and in life to simply be what they are, no matter how dark or terrifying that might be. But with a woman, we expect an answer, a reason. But why would she do it? Why, why, why?

Gideon returns with a duffel bag. He takes his glass off the low table and dumps the contents of the bag on it. Playing cards, matches, dice, a few poker chips, a guitar pick, dinner mints, a candle, two vibrators, a butt plug, nipple clamps, ball gag, lengths of rope, a whip, two dildos, handcuffs, condoms, lube, and an old box board game of Pretty Pretty Princess. “Yeah,” I say. “We can make this work.”

Lmao!!!!

One of Tallulah Fly’s hallmark lessons: never stop moving, fill your time, and fill it wisely. If you cannot fill it wisely, then fill it exquisitely.