Photo by Dmitriy Tyukov on Unsplash
by Megan Cannella
How discretely can I scratch my ears during a blow job? Is this the perimenopausal version of tapping my head and rubbing my tummy?
When it’s time to go home, because I sleep in a frigid tundra, and he is a balmy, summer day, I balance to put my pants back on and am reminded of a video, or article, or clandestine conversation between my mom and aunt when I was too young to understand their madness, that warned me about the importance of mobility exercises as my body inches closer to earning adjectives like fragile or frail or osteoporotic.
I balance, unassisted – that’s the important part – as I put one leg into my sweatpants, realistically the only pants this man has ever seen me wear, and then the other.
I could reach behind me to fasten my bra, but I shove it in my purse, which is already brimming with my wallet, the novel I’m currently reading, a variety of over-the-counter meds and essential oils to ward off pain and allergies and the compulsion to scream at everyone and anyone who crosses my path. I kiss his shoulder, and he drowsily tells me to drive safe.
Megan Cannella (she/they) is a neurodivergent Midwestern transplant currently living in Nevada. They’re a Best of the Net and Pushcart nominated writer. Find more of their work here Megan Cannella. Megan’s on Twitter/X @megancannella and Instagram @meeeeegancan
