Chelsea G. Summers

Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

I am a whore, but I am a print whore, and I miss cracking spines to see myself splayed open in wet, glossy spreads of luscious, expansive prose.

One learns so much about a person when one merely wants to fuck him.

Orgasms are a dime a dozen. Any old human woman can see a man orgasm. We so rarely get to see them die; it has been my greatest gift and my most divine privilege.

There in the world, my psychopathy sells better than sex—and sex plus psychopathy, well, that’s a heady delight.

You who call women the fairer sex, you may repress and deny all you want, but some of us were born with a howling void where our souls should sway.

Over trays of Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers and mountains of cooling fries, I learned that being female is as prefab, thoughtless, soulless, and abjectly capitalist as a Big Mac. It’s not important that it’s real. It’s only important that it’s tasty.

My philosophy has always been that if you look hard enough, you will find something wicked on nearly every man—everyone has at least one devastating piece of information.

I didn’t fuck anyone I couldn’t ruin.

You can’t be a woman without protection. Condoms fail. Pepper spray can be turned against you. Information almost never does.