Awhile back, I submitted my work into the 2020 Kenyon Review Short Nonfiction Contest. Unfortunately, my piece didn't make the final cut. I suppose I should have spent more than 30 minutes on it, but if you know me at all you will realize that sometimes my impulse wins. I'm doing my best to channel that for good. That's why I'm going to become a virgin again.
Yes, it's true. I have the surgery planned. I am going to receive a vaginal tightening surgery to make myself a virgin again. You may refer to me after that as THE VIRGIN YETTI. I will be in a history book! The Bible II is currently being written. My career is not over! It's just beginning.
Read my 2020 Kenyon Review entry "The Lying Game" here:
"" The most frustrating part about having a tattoo is being asked what it means constantly. I guess when you strip naked for a living it’s the least awkward question for a patron to ask you besides, “Can I have a dance?” My way of coping with that and everything else that goes wrong in my life is to make it into a joke.
Sometimes, I tell men that my tramp stamp says enter here and that I’ll be getting an arrow pointing to my ass next week. That always makes them laugh. I’m always surprised at the amount of people that truly want to believe me.
I decided to test how far I could take a story once. Ok, maybe twice. I whipped my head around after an ass clap, looked a man dead in the eyes, and told him that it was an MS13 tattoo. We just stared at each other for a moment. A laugh came over me. I couldn’t do it. I guess it wasn’t as funny either.
Only once did I ever wonder about someone else’s tattoo. I wondered because it was missing. A small, clean, rectangular, indented scar below the corner of his left eye screamed to me, “I cut my gang tattoo off myself!” I didn’t ask. I just stared as I danced. I didn’t think that I was being obvious, but maybe I was. He looked like your typical construction worker. With his hands at his sides while I danced, he was more polite than many polished businessmen. I recall him suddenly blurting out, “I’m a bad person.” Convicted, I told him that sometimes people do bad things, but that I knew he wasn’t a bad person. He was just trying to take care of his family the best way he knew how.
Do you want to know the truth about my lower back tattoo? It says, “Memento Mori.” This is Latin for remember your mortality. We all die one day. What would you die for? Get a tattoo to prove it. What would you do to prevent death? Cut the tattoo you just got out of your skin yourself. Life is nothing more than a dance of individual survival, isn’t it? I’m not laughing anymore. ""
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