Homie Head

I turned thirty on a couch I hadn't left in three days. My fiancée was across the country finishing her residency. My friends were roasting me in the group chat. I was clutching a bottle of whiskey I wouldn't open and pretending that counted as coping.

They sent texts. They sent threats. They sent memes. None of them came to the door.

Then Kirsten showed up with a tire iron.

She didn't knock like a normal person. She hit the deadbolt until I thought she was going to take the frame off its hinges. She walked in like she owned the place, called me a sad little punk, and told me I looked terrible—all with a lollipop still in her mouth.

Kirsten didn't flirt. She didn't do soft. She hit harder than most of the guys in our crew, and nobody talked about her sideways unless they wanted a problem. She had a braid that swung when she moved, thighs that could crack a man's resolve and his skull, and a stare that could shut down a room.

She wasn't there to comfort me. She was there to fix me, not to pick me

Her methods were unconventional.

Not really, because this is raw, filthy smut.