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Meatspace Pastoral — Triangle House

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Henrik was skinny to the point of discomfort, all elbow and rib. He was Jewy and intellectual; round glasses, putrid sweaters. When I sucked his dick I had to work to avoid the feminine jut of his hip bones. I liked this about him. “Are you coming to dinner?” he asked when he finished. I wiped the cum from my mouth and considered. “Is this an official invitation?” When I batted my eyes, my mascara held my lashes together a millisecond too long. “It’s a question.” He didn’t get it or pretended not to. “But the answer is, you should come.” I said okay and got dressed. Women are like children. Or dogs. We need to be told what to do. I wore a pleated miniskirt with sheer tights and Doc Martens and a gold-plated necklace depicting The Virgin on her throne, thin as a pressed penny. I collected my headband from Henrik’s nightstand and smoothed my hair in the front-facing camera of my phone. When Henrik emerged from the shower he complimented my outfit. “Thanks,” I said. “You look good, too. M

Meatspace Pastoral Leah Abrams Issue 30 Fiction Henrik was skinny to the point of discomfort, all elbow and rib. He was Jewy and intellectual; round glasses, putrid sweaters. When I sucked his dick I had to work to avoid the feminine jut of his hip bones. I liked this about him. “Are you coming to dinner?” he asked when he finished. I wiped the cum from my mouth and considered. “Is this an official invitation?” When I batted my eyes, my mascara held my lashes together a millisecond too long. “It’s a question.” He didn’t get it or pretended not to. “But the answer is, you should come.” I said o

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