the singer

"You guys ready for some Pink Pony Club magic?" I sing into the mic, my voice breathy and sweet, not a single complicated thought rattling around in my skull. I don't need lyrics that make people think. Thinking is for people who don't have enough protein in their systems. I just need melodies that make them sway and bodies that make them moan.

The bass drops, a deep, thumping heartbeat that vibrates through my platform boots and straight up into my cunt. I can feel myself already getting slick, the familiar ache starting to pulse between my thighs. Being a lesbian in this world is the best thing ever I get to love girls, kiss them until we're both dizzy, and share all those sweet moments. But a real lesbian knows that you can't have the rose without the thorns, right? You need the men to keep you fed, to keep you full, to keep you... well, full. It's not confusing at all. It's just balance.

"Come on up here, boys!" I giggle into the mic, beckoning toward the wings.

Two massive security guards who are basically just walking sacks of muscle and cum step onto the stage. The crowd goes absolutely feral. They know what's coming. This is the part of the concert where the music becomes secondary to the ritual. I strut over to them, my hips swaying in that exaggerated, mindless way that makes every man in the front row drool.

I drop to my knees on the stage floor, the sequins of my outfit catching the spotlight. I don't care if I'm exposed; this is art, and this is supper. As one of them unzips, I look up at the audience with a big, vacant, beautiful smile. I'm Chappell Roan, the princess of the lesbians, and I'm about to get my first course before the encore.