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by S J Mannion


I told my mother a true thing. For maximum impact, I said, “I sold myself.”

She dragged on her cigarette, blinked and said, “For money?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“How much did you get?” she said, exhaling.

I said, “Too much and then not enough,” and waited.

“Sure, why wouldn’t you?” she said. “Might as well get something for it.”

“I didn’t do it for long,” I said. “Just the three times.”

“I see,” she said. “So what were they like?”

“Good, bad and indifferent,” I said. “I’ve fucked worse for free.”

“We all have,” she said.

“Not all,” I said, looking at her directly now.

She looked away, and then ground the butt into the ashtray.

I kept looking at her.

After a while she said, “So, what did you need the money for?”

“Oh, it wasn’t about need,” I said. “I just wanted to be … No … I wanted to not be the way I am.”

She sighed and said, “I see. Well, what did you spend the money on?”

“I spunked it up the wall,” I said.

We both laughed at that.



I am become so utterly exasperated, and so often irritable about so many things, so much of the time, that I fear for my future relationships. Not only with my rather unfortunate friends and family but also with the world in general. I feel I am destined to be alone. That I should live alone, in a small house, on an island, with only books and birdsong for company.

My husband laughs at me, and tells me that this is wishful thinking, and that what I really need is a good fuck. What I really need is to be fucked, more regularly than I am presently. And I think on this. And I have to acknowledge that he is not wrong. A good fuck is a good thing. It helps. Sometimes. Though by then, of course, I would rather it was not with him.

S J Mannion is a Dubliner, middle aged, married-with-three, desperately doing domesticity. When she can, she writes, when she can’t, she reads.