I’ve been so well behaved today. Such a good girl. Yes, just the best girl. 

Look at my hair, how clean, how effortlessly messy it is. And my skin, how it glows under the rays of the early afternoon sun. I’ve been so beautiful and agreeable today; my lips have been so plump and pink, my shoulders so bare and bony. 

This means… fuck, this means, yes… this means, uuuurrrrgggg, YES. Only the best of girls get to play fantasy football and today, that’s me. My heart starts to beat double time, my tongue sits twice as heavy in my mouth. Who’s a good girl? Me, me, me.

When I’ve been this good, when I’ve been this good of a girl, I let myself sit on the ledge at the park closest to my home and stare. I stare until Something Happens. I like to think of it as getting inspired, but in reality, it’s a much deeper experience than that. When you feel it, you feel it—it takes over, erases thought and leaves white, hot, blank sensation.

The boys… the boys are kicking a ball around, shirtless and shining with sweat. Their hair is perfectly kept, fades never overgrown. Tattoos fan their chests, backs and legs, their abs are washboard hard. Watching them, my leg starts to wag.

There’s one boy kicking the ball today whose face splits in two when he smiles and who shuffles into a small two-step when he lands a particularly good kick. 

I’m giving my devotion to him today. 

I take a deep breath and empty my mind of anything else that’s not him and his legs and his smile. 

The ball comes and goes from his feet. The sun bounces off him like a reflection.

My tongue is growing wetter in my mouth, and I swivel it around one, two, three times, to get the saliva spread across my teeth evenly. I like to feel the film covering my canines like veneers, protected, hardened. The hairs on my legs and arms are erect, like a cock spreading its feathers at dawn. 

I’m getting itchy behind the ears. 

My haunches feel tight like springs in a pressure cooker. 

I’m almost ready, I can feel it coming over me.

The ball bends over the sky like an arched spine and the boy traps it cleanly in between his feet. That does it.

I jump down from the ledge and land on my hands and knees. I start to crawl over to him. Everyone looks at me. Drool pools from my mouth and pours onto the hot concrete beneath me. I get some on my fingers and leave marks with the pads of my hands as I get closer.

Once I’m at his feet, I sniff, and with the wettest mouth I have mustered yet, lick, from the tip of his toes to the base of his shins. My spit glistens and bubbles and for a second, everything is perfect. A shiver starts to travel up my stomach until it spreads through my brain like butter.

I look at him with big and wide eyes, and I beg, woof.