“Being female is a job to be done. It’s a turn up on time typa’ job. It’s a no-break make-that-fake-shit watching you in the bathroom typa’ lonely gig.”

Smoke, girl, smoke. You bring the solace in your factory cheeks and blow it out. They want that pain cleared. Any motherfucker with their eyes clapped on the menu checking the exits in the back of their mind knows that.

“You heard my name.”

Kay Whale is a bona fide monster, a no-talent hairy mess. I don’t want talent. I don’t want a thing to do. I already suck dick, and that’s about all you need to know. You bring the pleasure. You jerk off a few moments into a test tube and send that to the angels. They tag it and send it back. If it glows, you’re good. If it sinks…who knows? I dial all my females, and it’s like, “Who is this bitch?” Tell me. Am I the last one? Am I the last solitary female on this dusty planet?

My best friend Gingy sits in an air case, labeling. She punches black plastic skin, making shiny, puffy letters clipped in hard short bands. She’ll label jars, bell peppers, bags of macaroni. What you give her, she’ll name. She’s into dream animals too, succoring them on a plastic spoon.

We watch men out the window. Men move in a herky-jerky robot way. Some go in a big belly “Lemme see here” jiggle. Some guys rush, jamming briefcases into Fords and Jettas. Deodorant Sticks, we call ’em. Swagger Trash are the boys who’ll scrape alongside buildings, rapping into their phones, drugged, and singing nonsense.

He Smokes. He’s right here, playing. He’s an ’80s ghost. We captured him. He got those sharp yellow nails, moth wings, for sniffing coke and picking out tunes, gaunt, hunched over that wooden woe-man, that guitar, singing da da dee doo da da doo. Gingy tries to talk to He Smokes about piglets. He keeps his eyes shut for a real long time.

Don’t even use that word to me, “women.” Give me the creeps. Just say stone.

Stones sit on bus benches, curl up on sidewalks on donated fleece blankets. They ride around on buses and subways with fucked up terriers with cloudy liquid eyes and rusty white hairs. They carry pillowcases full of smelly old elastic waist pants and shit you don’t need like cruddy frying pans and hotel keys and empty lotion bottles. When they speak, stones fall from their mouths.

That’s how come they got the name, girl.

When I dream, I dream about strange insect-people. Crickets. Sometimes they’re birds. These big green birds have long hand-wings. They scoot me along in a dark cave with magenta swirls and black crystal sand. Stones are there too, tonguing each other and moaning. I don’t like to get turned on by a stone, but their pussies are so fat and glossy I feel my heart in my rib cage stop. Sometimes the stones fuck the bird people, but never the insects. Maybe the insects are gay. I dunno. But they don’t mate.

If you want one to speak, stone’ll say, “Blah blah blah” and put out a scary red tongue like a devil.

People always asking, “What’s your story?” No female gotta story. I’m serious. There’s nothing but stains on your ass from coming to this planet. Yes, girl, Earth. Yes. This city is littered with female stones, half-births, and corny wannabes signing up for classes. Don’t they know no chick got nothing in her but craters?