Spare Holes

Dear Jim,

I think I love you. In a platonic, services-rendered-for-cash kind of way, that is.

Every time I see you, you hurt me. I walk away shaken and sore, but I still want more. You’ve introduced me to parts of my body I didn’t even know the names of until we met. I love the no-nonsense snap of your latex gloves, the way you say, “deep breath, it’ll hurt less”, the informational brochure you hand me on the way out the door, with your name and number scribbled on the front. You make me feel special, even though we both know you do this to twenty or thirty other girls a day. That’s OK, Jim. You’re man enough for us all.

And thanks for the piercing. It looks great.

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