Lacy Goodmorning

Lacy Goodmorning may or may not know several dead languages.  She certainly does not teach children.

My name is Lucy, it used to be Luke

About six months after my sexual reassignment surgery, I was ready to fuck. Really ready. My daily sessions with the vaginal dilator and its not-a-cock inertia had become a cruel torment. I found a man on OkCupid. He looked perfect: tattoos and thin cruel lips. His name was Franz. We agreed to meet at a bar.

I should have known something was wrong from the very beginning. I have DD tits and Franz didn’t even glance at them. He chatted about his job—he subbed at a preschool—and he did not try to get me drunk. I got drunk anyway. As soon as there was a lull in the conversation, I told him that I am a filthy slut and that I wanted to lick his boots while he violently fucked me with no consideration for my pleasure. 

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High noon, Friday. In the cafeteria, the students crouched over greasy formica tables exchanging profanities in their indecipherable argot. The halls of the main building would have been utterly deserted if it were not for the despised, who wandered restlessly from classroom to empty classroom and unpacked their secret stores of sorrow in the toilet stalls and the library carrels. These pariahs, ugly and awkward, travelled alone, shrinking from contact even with their own kind. But no one bothered them during the lunch hour, and they roamed the dim and dusty passages at will.  

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The Hedgehog

He had never seen a porcupine before, and when the smiling woman who worked at the zoo and wore a khaki zoo uniform held out the curled porcupine and said, “Here, touch it,” he was nervous, imagining, if we will speak without reserve, and we should, that the porcupine might scuttle up his arm and burrow under the collar of his shirt, then creep across his chest and nest itself under his armpit, where it would cling with its tiny dark claws and lick up his perspirations with its rough tongue, and he supposed, quite frankly, that it wouldn’t be so awful to have a porcupine live in his armpit and that he would get used to it after a while, though he also rightly thought that the spines would be a matter of continual discomfort, but the real difficulty in the matter was that he was absolutely certain that the porcupine would create social difficulties every time he met someone new, for example, when he went to parents night at his daughter’s school and sat with the other parents, cramped in a desk that was intended for a body significantly smaller than his, then the other parents would notice the way he held his arm away from his body and the peculiar bulge in his shirt beside his breast, and they would, without doubt, ask after his health, and he would say, “I’m fine, I just have a porcupine nesting under my armpit,” and someone would ask how long it had been there, and he would say, “two years,” or whatever was the correct answer, because he was an honest, straightforward man, and he would never try to talk down such a matter, and then some know-it-all, father of an honor student, would suggest that he see a doctor, as if that hadn’t occurred to him, “or a veterinarian,” and he would think indignantly that he was a human being, and that human beings do not visit veterinarians, so he would say to the father of the honor student, “I’m not an animal, I am a human being,” and then a sad philosophical silence would descend upon the classroom. 

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They were at the actress’ house waiting to make a porn movie.

It was to be called Five Black Cocks in My Wife, and the director, who was something of a name in the industry, had already sold the movie to a distributor, and it was due in two days. All that remained was to shoot the film. The actress’ sitting room was tastefully arrayed with a marble bar, understated cream leather couches, and glass-topped tables. There were also, usually, some tall nickel-plated pharmacy-style lamps, but she had moved them into the kitchen so they wouldn’t get knocked over during the filming. So the lamps were huddled around the stove like anxious anorexic cooks. The director had chosen the actress’ house because it had a pool, and he liked pool scenes—the lucid sheen of the surface, droplets of water on shaved flesh like sugar on a pastry.

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