Miss Jet Pack

I understand a bigger picture. It's sex and death. I take both to heart. They say "This is my passion. This is what I live for". I say you live for those things for pussy. You've been playing guitar for fourteen years cause you wanted some hot blonde number to remember your name. Not to degrade what you've devoted your life to, but really, think of why you started...now think of why you really started. Tell me I'm wrong.

I'm talented. I know this. But I'm not an expert at anything, at least not to anything useful in public. I cut out the messenger, the middleman. I saw the two motivating factors of life and I just chose to put everything I have into one of them. Sex. Not sex in general, just my sex. Finding my sexual identity is my priority. I want to be able to lay in bed with a boy I haven't ever kissed in my life and immediately be able to pick up on if he's going to be good for me. And my vagina.

I want to be a god damn fuck psychic superhero.

How does one go about gaining slutty extrasensory perception? Just know your body. What you like. How this feels.

Boys have it easy. You have your body to encourage you with physical evidence during puberty. Waking up in wet shorts says "Hey, pay attention to me". Getting random erections in the most inappropriate of times "Kid, come on. I'm not going away. Get to know me, Take care of me."

Girls aren't so lucky. We are shown little if any evidence of our bodies trying to get acquainted with us while we're changing. We have to dig for it. At 12 I lacked the attention of boys. So I spent a lot of time digging.

"I don't masturbate." She says. If she's being honest, I feel so sorry for her. I imagine if God gave us built in Jet Packs she's the type who'd refuse to use the thing. Once I knew how to operate my own Jet Pack, I was able to become familiar with the workings of other Jet Packs. You can sense it on a person, when they understand the gears and switches of their own bodies. We tend to trust those people with ours. I'm trusted. Usually immediately.

My talents lack audience. Individuals privileged enough to be witness of my craft should consider themselves lucky. Yes, I'm greedy. But I'm picky. What I devote passion, time, energy, and love into isn't open to the public. My performances are secrets. I am the most intimate of girls.

They say, she must hate herself. She must be traumatized. She must be in order to be so obsessed with something to shameful. To degrade herself to a boy she doesn't know--they couldn't be more wrong.

Lay with me. I'll know you well enough. The trick:

I know myself. I'm generous with myself. I love myself.

And that is why, on your bed, in your clean text book bedroom, with a smoke-filled head, when you lean in to kiss me, reach up my skirt, and slide curious fingers up under my Jet Pack, I am the least bit surprised.