I call him “daddy” on a grassy knoll in the parking lot of my therapist’s office. He places a bed sheet down, quite tenderly, but thin enough that it immediately collects the fresh dew. His hand is large — rough — manly enough to have a thumb pressed firmly against my throat and the rest of his hand cradling my neck so that with each thrust, I rock and tug against the skin of his palm. He has all the contemporary trappings of someone with a smelly cock: a Bass Pro Shop hat, hairy chest, ill-fitting jeans, an oiled mechanic’s shirt with a flat-iron patch that says MICHAEL and a bloated beer gut. A hyper-masculine man with politics that are probably messy and a bio that says NO FATS NO FEMS but then why does he smile every time he calls me his baby girl? 

His real kid just got braces and the other one has a nasty bout of psoriasis right now. I didn’t ask, but it’s a life-long disease. I’m only here for quick dick on Thanksgiving weekend, when all the cheating husbands come home for the holidays. There’s no need for morals with a perfect stranger, I guess. I’m a dirty fucker with an even dirtier mouth, I guess — And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee!

And this is what they expect from me, isn’t it? All those wannabe religious martyrs of Amerikkka driving along the freeway, past the billboards of a white Mother Mary who asks, “Are you ready to accept Jesus and receive His love?” Now, Daddy’s pistol in my hand, rubbing my spit on it at the last second before it shoots, I receive, and afterwards, he cries. He lays on top of me, exhausted, devastated, and probably thinking about his two real kids, and the dew is now cold and sticky on my back, and I tell him, “It’s okay to be horny.”