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Orgasms, Moths, and Mary Poppins

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My therapist wants me to talk about my father. I don’t know why. There’s not much to say: he gave me half my genes, didn’t teach me Spanish, and yelled at me when I left the room. “?me love fucking you Don’t ?father your with time spend to want you Don’t” Big deal. I want to talk about how I can’t orgasm. Kenny and me have done it five times, and I hope I’m faking the right noises. I don’t want him to leave.

 

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Like, what does an orgasm even feel like? My friends talk about it so casually, like it’s Caesar salad. I just agree with whatever they say. Apparently, it feels great. They never say more than that; maybe they’re faking it too. Kenny always orgasms. He doesn’t let us use a condom, and I always feel him jabbing inside me like he wants to break me in half. That’s when he’s the loudest. It’s when I have to be loud. He makes me bleed if I’m not.

 

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I want to scream at my therapist. Fucking not everything is about my father, especially not my fucking. I wish she would let me talk about how Kenny never cums when I blow him. His dick tastes like dead moths but I’m not allowed to refuse a blowjob. The first time I gave him head, he hit me for using teeth. And the second. And fifth. I tried to tell him that I can’t tell when I’m using teeth but he hit me again and told me to make him moan. I tried not to cry as he shoved dead moths into my mouth.

 

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Kenny told me he loved me today. He told me he’d loved me the first time he saw me dancing at the Kappa party. But I can’t tell my therapist. She doesn’t like Kenny. I told him that I loved him too and he fucked me in the stairway. With one hand, he pushed my limp arms above my head, taking out his cock with the other. “No,” I almost said, my mouth made the shape but sound was silent. He saw. “But you love me.” I nodded at his dead moths. “Then let me have you.” It wasn’t a request as he kissed my forehead and held my cheek. He shoved himself inside me and dripped cum on the linoleum.

 

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I’m going to Kenny’s for Thanksgiving. His parents want to meet me and Mom is still in rehab. He keeps his hand on my knee the whole drive, tightening his grip if I move at all. He dressed me before we left. He came into my dorm room and opened my closet. “Wear this one.” He pulled a low cut halter out of the closet, the dress I wore the night we met. The dress that showed all breast but the nipple.  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I mean, I just don’t know if—” “Trust me, this is perfect.” Kenny pulled off my shirt. “You don’t know what my family’s like, you need to make a good impression.” He pulls off my skirt and shoves the dress on. I raise my hands to tie the halter but he beats me to it. He ties it so tight I gasp, my breasts almost falling out. “Perfect,” Kenny says. “And don’t wear a bra. My mom wouldn’t like how weird the straps look.”

 

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Thanksgiving at Kenny’s is fine, it didn’t go badly like my stupid therapist thought. His parents are nice. His mom complimented my dress, and his dad said it showed off my curves. It made me smile. People rarely compliment my body. His parents let me and Kenny sleep in his room. “They encourage it,” he told me. “My dad said it’s never too early to be a man.” The night before we leave, I hear him talking to his parents next door. I’m lying naked like he told me to when I hear a thud. Then sniffling. “Don’t cry, you sissy,” his father growls. “That’s what you bring home? She looks like she’s never tasted cum in her life. You can’t fucking be a man if you can’t teach her how to please.” Another thud. “I’m sorry,” I hear Kenny sob, “I really care about her, she makes me—” Thud. “She’s not enough. Do better.” A door closes and I hear Kenny crying in the hallway. I only now realize that I’m wet and there are tears in my eyes.

 

Kenny broke up with me when we got back to school. He didn’t tell me why but I knew. I don’t tell my therapist. I tell her my favorite part of Mary Poppins. I’ll miss Kenny’s dead moths.

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Katalina Gamarra

Katalina is a California native currently living in Boston, MA. In addition to writing, her passions include reading, music, theatre, sewing, knitting, and baking. An avid fan of writers from James Joyce to Stephen Sondheim, Katalina strongly believes that art saves lives, and her goal is to help people help themselves through the power of creativity.

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