and maybe a few snack crackers.

***

​​You can put a hole in a donut, but you can’t make a fool out of me.

But you can put a hole in me. I am yeasted dough entirely. There are holes in my psyche—holes in my aura, as it were—ready-made for fucking. You can poke new holes in me, insert that thing, and open fire so hard it pulls up mula bandha, awakens the coiled serpent pussy-tongue in the fourth vertebrae that, when tickled just so, spirals up the spine through the crown of the head, transcends the ethereal chakras, uncoils and spits creamed venom into the absolute interstellar vacuum. From galaxy brain to mind in the gutter, you can fashion me into whatever you want, put a hole in me. Fuck it. Suck my pineal gland, drink my pineal cum. You can spray dough through a fryer in circular patterns and suddenly have a bunch of balls I’d love to munch!

You can put a hole in a donut, but you can’t make a fool out of me. But you can put a hole in just about all of my being. People can be more than one thing, but they can also be just one thing. Case in point, I might know you want a bean feast and give you one because my soul has been thoroughly destroyed, and my soul-destruction is anywhere from partially to fully of my own making, but I’ll give you a bean feast because your happiness is my happiness and my happiness is void insofar as it doesn’t exist without yours. Case in point—pussy is an open wound, continually reinjured and cannot heal, but if given enough time between grand re-openings may scab over and become an apple fritter! You can pick it right off the pudendum, watch it ooze around the rough edges, throw your head back and hold it over your mouth-wide-open to catch driblets of apple-cinnamon bitch syrup. If I made you this apple fritter—if you made me make you this apple fritter—I expect you to pick it right off the pudendum and lick it from crack to clit.

Put a hole in it. 

You can put a hole in a donut, but you can’t make a fool out of me. I ruined my whole entire life all by myself with no help at all, thank you very much. I am thoroughly destroyed, and my pussy is an open wound, and my pussy is an apple fritter, and my pussy is now a bakery. It’s all about customer relations. Imagine being a pro bono whore, as opposed to a whore for hire, and the thing transacted is love, not sex, and the benefactor is the whore, not you, and the whore goes ‘round all night, every night, transacting in this manner, letting you pick off her apple fritter every time. She cares nothing for the difference between love and sex and uses you as an outlet and inlet for both, when she makes you cum bullets every time, her eyes sucking your eyes as you approach the apotheosis and the vertex takes hold and you start to feel impossible pleasure, and you both cum bullets with your open cum nozzles locked together, and you feel that giddy loss of self-consciousness and self itself, no barriers, granted the power to experience oneness and the infinite. The whore is an unlikeable person, a menace to society and, by many, considered a monster. For the threat she poses to fidelity. Because affairs are more common than fidelity. Because whores aren’t people. Because whores are the only people who see who people really are. Because if you ever want to know who a man really is just ask his whore! She transacts with eyes wide open and legs wide shut and is not a hypocrite. She is the free thing people fear, and she uses her apple-cinnamon girl parts—which you need to be alone with, and to which you like to do unspeakable things—to use you. Once consumed, her apple-cinnamon girl parts fritter over once more. This is her vice and virtue, her ruin and rise. This is why, later in life, I took up home economics and turned my pussy into a bakery, not for the nurturing human warmth and smiles my goods might elicit, but to solicit.

You can put a fool in a donut shop, but you can’t make a hole out of me. All of me is already a hole. I know you want the world, the hole world, the works, the hole works—presents and prizes and sweets and surprises of all shapes and sizes. I know you want all farm-fresh stuff—whipped cream straight from the exploding cum cow udder, whipped dreams straight from the cum cow encephalon and other raised-in-a-barn delights, teat- and temporal lobe-to-table. I know you want a world of butter and sugar and spices and everything naughty and nices, a hole world inhabited by real crotch exploders, dabbling and babbling and messing in their doughs and fondants and edible glitters and designer powders. I know you need to be alone with them, your master list of sweets, an all-you-can-wet-dream buffet—glazed nutter butters, frosted cream sockets, jellied honey squeezers, drizzled sugar lockers—Little Debbies, Hostesses, Dolly Madisons, Tastykakes—a build-your-own variety pack of Entenmann’s Rich Frosted Buttermilk Softees, Pound Cake Minis, Glazed Pop’ems and Pop’ettes—pumped and clotted and moneyshotted and dusted with cremains. See how the frosting treacles out of the stargazy humble huff pastes, and the gypsy sugar puffs fill with sweetmeats! Are you, with your compound eyes, seeing an entire room of pies to eat with your eyes first? A vision in emulsified happiness and granulated bliss—baked goods and confections, breads, fillings, and toppings the tastebuds on your cock can taste before you even matador the little gems with your Slim Jim. Looks alone are the flavormaker. Reservations and misgivings are the flavormaker. 

You can put a hole in a fool, but you can’t make a donut out of me. Except you can. You can make all sorts of me, really. When pussy scabs over, it needn’t be an apple fritter exclusively. Why, it can be monkeybread, for instance. It can be strawberry rhubarb pie à la mode! It can be personal-pan pineapple upside-down cake! The pudendum may freshly prepare and decorate any sweet in the hypothetical display case. You can choose your own treats, watch them bake from scratch in the crotch or deep-fry in the deep-cryer with dough made from yeast and live active cultures sweetened to taste. You can pick some off for fucking and others for sodomizing and sample different treats in such a manner. You can crack open a snozzberry jam bun, give it a shit-eating grin, lick the fissure, slip it in. Fuck it. You can eat out a thumbprint cookie and a cheese blintz and a devil square and a great big slice of icebox pie all at the same time with your slobber elevator that dissolves foodstuffs on contact. You can put your Ring Pop in a Pecan Spinwheel, your Ballpark Frank in an Orange Zinger, cup your family fool’s gold with a Ho-Ho, out-cream a Twinkie—the Muff n Stix see all! You can make a Baby Bundt queef, just as you can make a Ding Dong fart. You can split a pair of Sno Balls like a venn diagram, stick your glizzie in the Nutty Buddy, put your stinkhorn in the Unicorn Cake. You can shake their asses yes, shake their asses maybe, shake their asses no, shake their asses fuck no, call them nutcrackers, call them nutcases. 

No, you can’t make a fool out of me, but you can put a hole in just about anything. You can pick off all sorts and attach them to storefront mannequins, twist ’em ’round like Barbies with ball-and-socket SI joints so that you have front-facing torsos with supe’d up milk jugs that dispense hot fudge in real-time, while you flay the bridie and butterfly the bearclaw, as it were. You can put your face ‘tween those fake plastic legs and inhale long the scent of snickerdoodles and fluffernutters, gingerbread men and Grandma’s fresh-baked oatmeal raisin cookies. You can spank the Honeybuns and the Funfetti rolls while you spank the monkey. You can feel, with each love fap, how the Moon Pies and Swiss Cake Rolls tense up ’round your shish kabob like paczki constrictors. You can make a duckbill out of the puff pastry, put your meat in the squeezer, say you little fuck while holding open a pair of sticky buns and poking the Pillsbury Doughboy in the belly. You can put some clotted cream on it and pray to Jesus! You can apply blunt force to the Toaster Strudel and drill the Poptart with your power corer tool and have a sense of gutter integrity about it. You can put your Warhead in the Gusher, feel the Pop Rocks snap, crackle, fizz; stick your prickly pear in the candy-coated snoot-snout, a-rippin’ and a-tearin’ and a-honkin’ and a-quackin’; go a-nuttin’ the gummy guzzler, stuff it dumb, wrap it in ropes of flavorless gelatin. You can have ingress, egress, and regress with Juggworth Jigglers and Cumtittlyhumptious Bars, wash ‘em down with Jizzy Lifting Drinks, send ya straight to Loompaland! You can clean up the carnage, polish off the crumbled morsels and scraps and residues of sweets all tore up, thoroughly destroyed though incompletely devoured, and wash away the shame with a milk t-shirt contest—pick the best racks off the cum cow babybacks, squeeze ’em together, open their faucet assemblies, and whichever is first to soak through the fake plastic chest wins. Tell ‘em what they’ve won, Johnny!

You can put a hole in a donut and make a fool out of me.