She learned of orgasm when she was six, flying off the swing set at the peak, and on the way down, and down, and lowdown-dirty-rotten, there was climax. Not her, not that time, at least. Careening into the ground, she lied there, her childish body bloody and cum-stained. She licked her wounds. Salty. She learned to love the taste.
I grew older, and therefore taller, and the swing set only came up to my knee. The shadow it cast in the middle of the torturous night came to dominate me. I started jumping off bridges instead. The climax was mine to keep.
I told strangers of babies and lied on my income taxes. Old men have already taken enough from me by now. Peering into any crevice I can find, I search for an extra dollar or narcotics. A man dangles thousands in my cleavage. I move to accept it, imagining the highs that money could buy me, imagining the lows I’d reach in order to feel anew tonight.