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TitleWe Are Never Meeting in Real Life.
Author
LanguageEnglish
File Size2.2 MB
Total Pages205
Table of Contents
                            About the Author
Other Titles
Title Page
Contents
Dedication
My Bachelorette Application
A Blues for Fred
The Miracle Porker
Do You Guys Pay Your Fucking Bills or What?
You Don’t Have to Be Grateful for Sex
A Christmas Carol
Happy Birthday
A Case for Remaining Indoors
A Total Attack of the Heart
A Civil Union
Mavis
Fuck It, Bitch. Stay Fat.
Nashville Hot Chicken
I’m in Love and It’s Boring
A Bomb, Probably
The Real Housewife of Kalamazoo
Thirteen Questions to Ask Before Getting Married
Yo, I Need a Job.
Feelings Are a Mistake
We Are Never Meeting in Real Life.
Acknowledgments
                        
Document Text Contents
Page 2

Samantha Irby

bitches gotta eat

http://www.bitchesgottaeat.com

Page 102

head moved between Mavis’s thighs, pretending to know what I was about to
start doing. The carefully sculpted, realistic-looking crowns affixed to the dead
stumps of hollowed-out bone jutting raggedly from the receding gum tissue
inside my head; the hours and hours and hours spent horizontal beneath blinding
lights as the dentist jammed a pickax between my pulsating molars and went
after my eyeteeth with an old-timey saw; the ten-inch needles piercing through
my skull, crammed into my sinus cavity, wedged into softened, bloody tissue
already vibrant with excruciating pain. I think as I
try to figure out a sexy way to tell her to scoot her butt forward so that she’s
positioned right under my chin without dislocating my goddamned elbow in the
process.

“Inch your butt up, sister,” I say, patting her haunch like a horse. “Just
like at the gyne.”



Eating pussy is easier than you’d think. I learned on the job and I am really quite
good at it. Sometimes my disabled ass gets the angle wrong and I’m, like,
sucking on a wet dreadlock or whatever, but for the most part I just sort of put
my face where it feels like it should go and let my tongue do what comes
naturally. It’s sort of like licking the inside of someone’s mouth? Except there’s
hair and no teeth and you have to be really careful not to disembowel your girl
with your wanton incisors. The first time was in daylight, and I really inspected
everything up close, but in a sexy way so she wouldn’t feel like her labia were in
a petri dish or something. And then, I don’t know, I just licked it like you would
an ice-cream cone. A soft-serve one, though. Because sometimes you gotta get a
little rough with the regular kind and use your teeth on the chunks or use your
lips really hard to mold it into a lickable shape. Sometimes I use my nose or my
chin and really I don’t think she can tell the motherfucking difference. The
fingering was easy to master, because I basically just do what I do to myself
when the vibrator is out of batteries while intermittently trying to feel what she
had for breakfast from the inside. That part is easy; I was doing the Jay Z “brush
your shoulders off” dance by the third time we got busy as Mavis was seeing
stars and catching the holy ghost while having orgasm after orgasm. I thought it
might take some time for me to get good at cunnilingus, but nah, I just get a
supportive pillow for my neck (I’m old) and get all up in that soft-serve.
I have always been above average at sucking a d, probably because I am the

Page 103

kind of person who excels at alone tasks rather than thriving in a group project.
Like, I just want to make the diorama the way I want to make it, okay,
Ms. Mitman? Then I know the shit will be right. So when I’m down there, face-
to–open-faced medium-rare roast beef sandwich (picture it), it’s important for
me to do a good job. I never much enjoyed being eaten out by dudes. One would
slowly make his way down there, burdened by obligation, and I would literally
clam up: I’m smelly; I’m hairy; I’ve got enough yeast in there to make dinner
rolls; just stick it in my butthole and hurry up so we won’t miss our dinner
reservation. But Mavis understands that my nose-searing musk is nature’s self-
cleaning oven just handling her business. And that that coarse mouthful of hair
I’m serving is payback for never having received my reparations when Obama
was elected.

The year I turned thirty-four, I decided to buy my vagina her first grown-up-lady
sex toy. A Lelo Mona 2, from the Pleasure Chest, more expensive than the most
expensive thing in my closet. It’s the Cadillac of vibrators, with its velvety
silicone curved for the G-spot and its multitude of settings and speeds. And
worth every penny, as one time I had Mavis lying on her side and was banging
her with it and she was caterwauling like a crazy person then squirted for the
first time ever, so hard and so much that it splashed on the goddamned cat.
THAT IS FUCKING AMAZING.
I always thought I would eventually end up with a woman. Men are too

taxing, too mischievous, too restless, too naughty, and I don’t want to spend my
Chico’s years with my stomach tied in an anxiety knot waiting for a dude to
leave me for someone younger. The idea of spending my Social Security checks
fussing over some goddamned man has never appealed to me; I want afternoons
spent shouting at the television set with my best friend in our matching house
sweaters and magnifying readers from Costco. I have always been sexually
attracted to both men and women, although the sex part is more of an
afterthought for me. My compatibility checklist is full of very important
qualifications, like:

• leaves me alone while I watch my shows

• doesn’t leave globs of toothpaste in the sink

Page 205

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