The orgasm wants to be famous
She thinks success would be her best revenge. It’s not enough for her now, merely to be alive. Or to feel bliss in brief moments. No, she wants to be seen. Known. She wants everyone to cheer her on. Not just you. And why shouldn’t they? She knows she’s a very special orgasm. She can see it every time she looks at her reflection, pirouetting before the mirror and then leaping this way and that. She cannot take her eyes off of herself. She is as lovely as a star. How could so few know she exists? She imagines the world fluttering around her like insects around a lamp. The image gives her pause. She thinks again. She selects a more appealing image—perhaps they will flit around her like fireflies around the moon.
The orgasm decides to learn about social media
because that is where fame happens these days. It is no longer satisfying simply to be an orgasm with long silky legs. She must also exist on the web. At first she is taken in by the easy access to so many fans. But soon it makes her feel frivolous. And a bit exposed. She begins to feel that she lacks depth. Her encounters are so frequent and fleeting. She fears she is becoming the kind of orgasm that merely tickles the surface of the lake. Who never dives deep like a fish or flies high like an angel. How could she when her legs are still tucked so neatly beneath her, her wings folded neatly across her back? Outside the clouds rush past like messages from another world. And the sky turns from blue to black.
The orgasm wants to open a Twitter account
but she isn’t sure what to tweet. At first she follows others tweeters. They tweet and tweet, forever singing to their wonderful selves. Even when she is sleeping, they are tweeting. Even when the snow falls and cuts off her electricity. Even when she wakes the morning after, cold and shivering, and wraps herself in a robe. One day she decides to tweet, too. I am lighting up a cigarette, she tweets. I am telling you the one real truth. She licks her lips and smiles. I am your last orgasm. She enjoys the silence that follows and is just about to sign off of Twitter forever. But then someone retweets her tweet. And someone else retweets the retweet. A little flutter begins in her heart. She sucks in deeply and glows like the tip of her lit cigarette.