Sometimes, I want to feel a little more overtly useful.
Occasional Table
use
“You’re doing a good job being used like a filthy whore, sweetheart.”
When he reassures me like this, even the filthiest stuff somehow becomes sweet and intimate. I feel safe and cared for and brave and loved. Maybe that’s kind of weird, but it makes me happy.
“I’ll be anything you want,” she said, “so long as I’m useful.”
She hated when people like them got over the top. She hated the pushcarts and the pony play and the ornate arrangements of flesh made to be something of use. She wanted to be used simply, to be reduced to function and not form.
And so he turned off the fuse box and blamed the storm. And she went to get a book of matches.