“My beauty doesn’t lie between my thighs.”

“I know I experience great consolation when my mouth is between a woman’s legs. I think it must be because I’m drinking in her happiness.”

“she said, when I wear these boots no one fucks with mewhen I tie my past like a scarf around my throatI can freeze the bloodof every naive and unabashed up-and-comerwhen I slide on my desire like glowing black stockingsI can make the uninitiated begfor the feel of raw and stinging woodand when I slip my angry black leather beltfrom its rusty hookthe ambitious and guileless cowerlike a thousand condemned soulswhen I close my fist, my rings goldenwith a youth well spentthe warriors of Gilead surrenderwith a breathless whimperand when my shouldersfeel the rough comfort of my serape woven with the fibersof a fierce and relentless vengeanceyou will soon realizethese are not my clothes after all, she says,they are warning signs”

“my stomach turned and burned with the acid of failure”

“I hid my underwear beneath a parked Peugeot.”

“I've always been intrigued by Stockholm Syndrome. Reminds me of my childhood.”

“Anyway, what do women grab when they’re nervous and sitting at their desks? Do they slip their hands inside their panties? What a distracting thought. Just the word panty is distracting. I love that word; it implies so much. I love how women look in panties, how they’re flat in the front. I’m thirty-five, but sometimes it’s still this beautiful amazing shock to me that women don’t have penises. They just have this lovely little mound of hair and then this tucked away glorious hole. Hole. Wait. Hole sounds vulgar. Is passageway better? Pretty envelope? Georgia O’Keeffe flower? Pussy? Pussy is good. I like the word pussy. Tucked away beautiful pussy. I wish I could put my face in one right now and sing out, “I love you!”