In Her Mind, the Pigeons Were Always Fucking

In her mind, the pigeons were always fucking, their wings flapping desperately to keep balance. In her mind, delivery men dropped their boxes and lay down on their carts with each other, pulled at their blue collars, unsnapped their shirts with an echo in the back of the truck. In her mind in restaurants, bartenders were occupied below, barbacks bending with cases of beer turning and unzipping them. The taller waitresses, not to be found at the tables, would take the small one, slide her across the brushed aluminum counters in the kitchen, tie her hands in her own apron, split her legs and tease her with steels, with ladles and the handles of warm pans, the back of a knife against her forearm and thigh, the burgundy reduction drizzled across her clit and licked off.

On the commuter train, the standing men would be unzipped by her mind, their helpless erections pulled out and serviced by her lips, cheeks and tongue. Others, in between their turns, would rub their cocks furiously, coming finally on her ear, on her eyelid, on the back of her neck. The man sitting next to her would lift her skirt and ease her thighs open, would find her without underwear, would pick her up and put her in his lap.

Every window she passed had couples pressed into it, the mouths of the women open against the glass, steaming it, their nipples, some pink, some brown, some small, some large, flattening and pulling, flattening and pulling. She would lean over and lick the glass for them, her long tongue warming it, and the women would look down, helpless between the men fucking them and the pressure of the glass, the pressure of her tongue there too. She would wait for them to come, wide trembles that bent the light, and then she would smile and move onto the next.

Each bathroom stall had forests of legs below their walls. The tiles were filled with groans and gasps. The sliding latches would be snapped from the metal and go flying, whole groups falling down to the floor, writhing, muscles bent into each other, noses in necks and tense backs. She would open her stall and find a man there for her, a bulge toward the left pocket of his jeans. He would be expecting her, and finding her there, his lips would part for a sigh.

Each convent she passed contained an orgy, the split dresses of the nuns revealing soft stomachs, each with a habit between their legs, pressing at the back of it with plain fingernails. In her mind, police stations were full of men paying off their misdemeanors with willing mouths, policemen entering the cells to take their due, policewomen bending over at the bars to receive the dirty cocks. She would finish them off, would drain them all before they fell to the ground in groups. In her mind, dark huddles of art students would share cigarettes and lick each other’s skin with pierced tongues in doorways, the pricks of the men would fall out of black jeans and be teased. The fishnet stockings of the girls would always end in red corsets and their black-bushed pussies would be shockingly crimson on the inside to match. Sometimes, they would press her hands in their fists and pull them down.

In her mind, the fingers of her right hand always smelled of pussy, the fingers of her left of cock, and her mouth tasted like come, her own saliva tasted of come, and she could smell it when she breathed as deep as she could, would take the scent straight into her nervous system and smile.