Addicted to tawdry tales that sometimes make her blush, Jesse's trying to craft her own.
Despite it’s scantily-clad acclaim, her first...read more published story (When the Pheromones Dance) was not so well-received by her mortified Catholic mother.
Fearing mother’s wrath, Jesse fled to the nation’s Capital—and securing White House Press Credentials—covered Science & Technology Policy during the Clinton Administration.
But buoyed by Lewinsky Lewdness, Jesse suddenly spiraled into a life of prostitution … and spent six orgiastic-years pretzling for Corporate America.
While some of Jesse’s stories get treated like used tampons— publications like Red Fez, the Flash Fiction Offensive, and flash-zine Shotgun Honey have graciously published her work.
Her back bent from writing smut, the author now resides in the U.S. Poverty Level (but fortunately not below-it). You can learn more here:
I felt just like a pumpkin. My body round-n-plump. My insides wet and squishy. The parted-smile I’d worn all night—splitting my frozen face in two—like a hellish dose of Botox.
The DJ hopped. The music popped: and dazzling colored lights pulsed across the floor.
I leaned my virgin ass against a beastly throbbing Yamaha (that had to weigh eighty-pounds). The innervating reverb made me feel more wanton … as I downed my dozenth Cosmo.
But like every other night in lusty Santa Monica … all the guys ignored me: even though I wore my spankin’ deep-blue Jimmy Choos. Those sleek thousand-dollar booties—which sport the ultra-modest four-inch fuck-me heels. And the studded ankle-collars … designed to slyly prolong foreplay (assuming the shoes come off).
Tossing appearances to the wind, I crunched a cheek ballooned with ice … a pathetic attempt to cool my multiple frustrations. When the remnants easily slid down my moist-and-willing throat, I knew I lacked the energy … to play this burdensome game till closing.
And rather than call a cab—
I flipped caution a middle finger.
Five blocks from my place—you stepped out of that alley ….
I suspect you’d ducked inside to have yourself a pee. But unlike the way I would’ve … you didn’t look self-conscious. And instead of staying put, you followed me down the street.
When I crossed over you did likewise. Each time I stopped … then so did you—
I crossed over once again … and again … you then crossed, too.
Tingles climbed my spine. Regardless of your intentions: the imagined thrill of being wanted was almost more than I could bear.
I paused outside my door … feeling almost breathless. I could tell you’d closed the distance—
But suddenly you halted.
I almost screamed in anguish. And let myself inside.
I planted those Choos behind a window—
And yanked aside the curtains.
Basking beneath a streetlight you boldly stared at me.
And much to my surprise … I boldly stared right back.
So after fifteen comfortable minutes …. I opened the door—
And called you in.
Ten years melted like milk chocolate: left in the summer sun.
Until that wretched winter day ….
I denied what I had witnessed—
At what I’d seen with mortified eyes ….
And to erase that gruesome horror: I tried drinking myself blind.
Of course that didn’t work …. Now I’m totally fucking angry—you stupid bloody turd.
For ten contented years you happily shared my bed. So each time I tried to sleep, your constant memory plagued me: like an unholy horde of bed bugs. To dispel those creepy-crawlies I had to buy a new one.
Headboard. Mattress. Foundation. Footboard. They all had to go.
Still that wasn’t enough to dispel your wicked curse.
Sheets. Comforters. Pillows. Shams.
I burnt ALL in our backyard: to repel the dastardly devils—you likely left behind on purpose.
You cold selfish prick.
This morning I held your funeral.
Now in case you haven’t noticed ….
My virgin ass and I are braving rabid torrential rain—
Easily ruining these old-blue yet sadly-sexy Jimmy Choos.
I’m not mad at you anymore. I’m totally depressed.
But I’m not the only crying person in this regal cemetery. The sobbing girl three headstones down … has also lost her cat—
Under the uncaring thumping tires of a violently screeching car.
Elizabeth Kubler-Ross claims I’ve got one stage left in this god-damned grieving process …