This is a Box, Not a Vagina

I’m in a box.  Not like any box you know.  Well, most of you don’t anyways.  I’m in a black box where there are mirrors.  If there’s smoke, it could come from a pussy.  I have seen, on more than one occasion, a girl smoke with her pussy.  The first girl who showed me this trick slid her white panties aside, spread her legs just wide enough for me to have a peek.  Draped her long blonde hair over her shoulder, parted her slit, slid a Marlboro 100 between her legs, then inserted the filter into her opening.  So casually she revealed her little pink part to me, it was both grotesque and exciting.  In the back of the black box, just her and me.  She had invited me secretly; I think she wanted me to lick it.  Or maybe suck the smoke from it.  She –watching me while I watched it, her.  I could see my reaction in a mirror behind her.  We reflected infinitely.  Her pussy smoking in fragments. 

Her name is Savannah.


I’m on the side of the box.  While most girls are twerking and doing pole tricks, there’s one who gallops in extra slow stride.  Her outfit some string and tassels.  A show pony if I ever saw one.  Everyone freezes; we are icebox, ice-cubes.  Her thighs are pressed together with such pressure she begins to melt all of us, her tongue flicks to the corner of her mouth –she is serpent-like and serpentine, she is a phoenix if it had thighs.  From between her legs a second tongue; drooling, a drop hits the floor.  We are helpless and speechless and insignificant.  In these brief lapses of time, she becomes the torque around which we all twirl.  A tiny writhe of the body and we stutter.  I watch her as she watches me, she calls me with the curve of her finger, her hips, her tits.  As if suspended in gelatin, I move towards her –but only in my mind.  I am shivering from cold and chicken shit against a leather couch. 

Her name is Cocoa. 


I’m in a corner of the box.  My eyes turned into slits, like the slit of the vagina I watch peek from behind a triangular-shaped piece of fabric.  The girl, of unusually tall height, teases a patron with her pink part; she also parts it with her index and middle finger.  As if I will be caught, I slink away into the couch; the cushions hold me like lips of a vagina.  The cushions moldy and moist –I feel as I’ve been birthed of a whore.  The customer’s belly bulges over his part that I’m certain is as hard as a knife.  And I’d cut myself with that knife if it weren’t attached to a saturated human blob.  The girl seems more than willing to cut herself as she lifts and juggles the belly until it’s practically sitting on her back.  As she grinds away, I see her wipe sweat from her upper lip.  She talks about her throbbing pussy; I can hear her from the corner.  Half of it is mumbling, though, because she’s drunk –she changes positions a few dozen times.  After about three songs, she looks over her shoulder at me and puts her finger to her lips.  I see the man go all-quiet then, almost limp.

Her name is Timber.


I’m in the center of the box.  There’s a stage, not like the stage of a theatre, but a stage nonetheless.  Lights line the floor and ceiling; black lights bounce off pieces of cellulite and stretchmarks and return to the client’s gaze without imperfection, like waxed dolls or mannequin legs and tits.  Most of us are aspirations of something we could never be.  But there are some who are flawless –flawless, indeed.  One who mounts the stage like a real acid trip or a ketamine high.  Her wavy hair just long enough to cover her nipples.  Thighs just long enough to make any man tremble or any girl jealous.  She is angle dusk spinning on poles and disco balls.  She arches her back and we all arch with her.  As she twirls we can almost see her fly. If her nipples were to glow, they would be in rainbow colors.  She tips upside down on the pole and our focal point becomes her heart’s center, not her face.  Her face would be the color of unicorns if they existed –she is a mermaid out of water, a fairy caught in web.  As she spreads her legs the room hushes; slipping out slowly –a lollipop.

Her name is Celeste.


I’m under the box.  It’s both hot and cold, of both temperatures neither you nor I have felt; it’s an imaginary temperature.  It’s a temperature of the dead and the living.  It’s a temperature that suits me just fine.  Under the box, I find things buried –a locket, latex gloves, a half-filled diary, porn magazines, and candy wrappers.  It’s so dark, I cannot imagine anything darker.  I plunge my hand into the dirt that lines the belly of the box.  The first time I took to the stage I felt the same thrilling terror.  So used to it now, I almost laugh.  Something tells me to dig, it’s a voice from behind –if I weren’t so blind, I might be able to see who was lurking.  The voice multiplies and I’m surrounded.  And I’m naked.  Pushing my face forward, my hands sink deeper into the pith, I touch a face.  I open my eyes and see the pinpoint, red eyes of a bald client leaning forward towards my center, towards my most sacred part.  Lights fade and I hear them announced my name.

My name is Marlowe. 

WORDS BY:  Jacklyn Janeksela

Jacklyn Janeksela, MFA is an artist and an energy. Find her work @ art mugre, jota cuadrada, &female filet. Her music with The Velblouds @ band camp.

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