Riding in jeeps with boys

I flew to LA to get fucked
against a rich guy’s sink

The man fucking me wasn’t rich
It wasn’t his sink or
his house

Watching my body bent
hands gripping
thousand dollar marble
the question of ownership
didn’t seem to matter

Later that night we watched a cam girl
Her hands not
gripping but lightly touching

Her body
Her house
Her sink

The coyote’s growl in his throat
made me curious

The vast plains of male desire
the same landscape, start
to finish

What? he asked
Am I not allowed
to enjoy myself?

I take my tight pussy with me

I do yoga everyday
to prove my body can do things
other than vacuuming up a dick

your pussy is so tight

or splitting open, ripping, turning inside out and back again,
ensuring this bruised DNA perpetuates
my body’s purpose to serve
another body’s purpose

I starved myself today
to prove my stomach can’t house anything
other than cucumbers and cola

planting translucent seeds in my belly,
I water them with syrupy fizz;
wait for my baby to grow
a slick stillborn with a 24-inch waist

whose is it?

He asks, but I’m already gone
I take my tight pussy with me—
slung over my shoulder or
tucked inside my coat—

it’s still mine

Claire Rychlewski is a writer and journalist living in Chicago. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in heather press, The Portland Review, MoonPark Review and Witch Craft Magazine.