j o a n n a    n o v a k



Dustin needed the wax. He needed the wax to spill and he needed to watch the wax harden. If the girls wore shoes, Dustin didn’t give a rip. Without tops, the girls’ bodies screwed a hot racket but, without shoes, they were strippers all the same, just more cave girl. Hot wax spill pussy, ooga booga. Me silver. Ramble interstate. Zoom truck. He would ride his Ram and cross the bridge, but then, please, girls: the shop, the curtain, the velvet, the cards, the glass, the cords, the lot, the gravel, the bed, where once he ate out this Bostonian sculptor while his girlfriend manned the cab.

He liked their open relationship. The two girls on stage flung handfuls of white wax at one another, and Dustin watched it harden onto their bronze breasts. He pretty much ached to peel off, mash those strips to crumbled bits: he felt this in the dip of his throat. For more than a month, he’d wanted to return. Without his girlfriend, he grew his maleness acutely in the club, he ran his tongue over his maleness like a big open sore. Ordered a Beam. Licked his fatboy lips. Watched and hardened, juicy, juicy, what the other PhDs did on Wednesday night, he’d never know. He nursed what all his Chico brothers had caught after school: a perfidious need for something used and wet and sticky.



JOANNA NOVAK is the author of Something Real (dancing girl press 2011). She holds an MFA in fiction from Washington University in St. Louis and currently studies poetry in the MFA program at UMass Amherst. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Black Warrior Review, Web Conjunctions, and DIAGRAM.

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