[FICTION][05/22/2026]Kitten
by Riley Mac
It's Friday evening. The teenage waste litter the mall food court, gathering in clumps in the fluorescent muck, claiming their stoops along the water fountain centerpiece. They shove tables together and plop their asses on tables with their feet on the chairs like ottomans. It's the perfect position to peer around and lust over friend groups that are older and cooler and to fantasize about one of them seeing something in you, in the hopes they beckon you over to join their other world. The teenage waste leave their stoops in intervals to hang out with Hot Topic employees and slosh around FYE Records. Rarely but sometimes, they’ll flirt with someone, and even more rarely, they’ll make out. This sequence of non-events will happen until the mall closes or until their parents pick them up.
Kitten, aka Kitty Kalamity on Myspace, waits for her friend Lexy, aka Lexy Skeletal on MySpace, to pick her up. She checks her reflection in her Motorola Sidekick and purses her lips; it's a pixelated kiss. She admires the way her Famous Stars and Straps tee curls up on her midriff above a Playboy bunny bedazzled belly button ring, her puckered bony hips teasing the rim of the studded belt on her low slung Tripp mini. She wags about with loud, clumsy confidence. She feels hot tonight. She knows almost everyone and everyone knows her. Kitten isn’t totally Myspace famous yet—but in this town and its adjacent towns, she might as well be. Her Sidekick purrs with a text from Lexy.
here, bitch
Finally.
cumming, whore xD
Kitten flings herself out the glass doors of the food court fortress and lunges into Lexy’s ‘99 Dodge Neon.
“Babe!” Kitten slaps a big, wet kiss on Lexy’s cheek and helps herself to a menthol from the center console.
“Lexy… a white lighter?” she scoffs. “Seriously? I’m chucking this shit out the window, this is bad luck.”
“Shut up,” moans Lexy, stepping on the gas. “It’s so gay to actually believe that a lighter is bad luck.”
“Well,” Kitten reclines the seat and takes a long drag of her cancer stick, “I need all the luck I can get tonight… Don’t you remember what happened the last time we saw Bullets in Texas play?” She ashes with a faggy flick out the window slit.
“Yeah, I remember,” Lexy laments. “That pedo Stevie cornered you in the parking lot and tried to take you home.”
“C’mon don’t be such a hater,” says Kitten, “He’s not a pedo. He’s only 21 and I doubt he knows I’m 16. I don’t act 16. Do I LOOK 16 to you? I’m not even wearing a bra,” she flashes Lexy her double A tits and cackles.
Lexy rolls her eyes and grips the steering wheel. “Trust me on this one,” she says. “I’m older. Stevie’s hot, I get it, but like… You don't wanna lose your virginity to that dude. He probably has an STD and he huffs sooo much nitrous.”
Lexy’s body stiffens. She’s curvier and taller than Kitten, less petite, pale, and frail. Guys overlook Lexy for Kitten, usually, though many of them gravitate towards Lexy’s big tits when they’re drunk. They assume Lexy’s more insecure, easier to fondle, to get a blowjob from, or to tittyfuck. She’s not easy to get with, and she’s not jealous of Kitten, either. She’s protective of Kitten. Lexy precociously and obsessively nurtures the people she loves. It’s the perfect distraction from her inner turmoil.
“Whatever, mom,” Kitten retorts. “I’m not gonna fuck him tonight anyway because I’m on my period, okay? But, I’m not gonna turn him down if he wants to hang out. I don’t have a curfew tonight because I told my cunt mom I’m sleeping at yours’. We’ll see what happens. Don’t cockblock me, please. Are we almost there?”
“Yeah, whore, don’t be so antsy,” Lexy says, turning off the main road toward the dimly lit parking lot of the skating-rink-turned-after-hours-DIY-venue.
It’s packed. The thick, rubbery air swallows the girls in a sea of dyed hair, as layers of teens wait for Bullets in Texas to go on. Kitten adjusts the pastel pink bang of her bottle blonde mop and her muse Stevie, aka Stevie Heartbreaker on Myspace, takes to his mount. He slings his matte white stratocaster over his pointy shoulders, mouth to the mic, while his bandmates hang back with reverence for their erect, lanky frontman. Stevie’s eyes leer beneath his extreme side part, Manic Panic black hair glistening. His white V-neck frames nautical star tattoos, shrouded in stubble from a lazily shaved chest. His legs are cylindrical poles dressed in grey skinny jeans that land at the nude ankle. Guys outside his inner circle enviously mock him. Girls imagine his face and body on a J-14 poster pinned to their bedroom wall.
The guys of Bullets in Texas never left this town. When their friends moved to the city and left for college, they became the king fish of their small suburban pond.. They were the leaders of community college dropouts, burnouts working night shift at Wawa, and ex high school heroin addicts turned agoraphobic pot dealers. Bullets in Texas are deities, in a sense, to the younger generation of mallrats and scenesters.
“We’re Bullets in Texas,” Stevie mumbles cockily from behind snakebite piercings. He slaps his stringy fingers on the guitar strings, fumbling into a melodic riff accompanied by sharp screams of indecipherable lyrics. The instruments boom and muffle in the fuzz of the rink’s shitty acoustics. The crowd goes wild.
“I’m fucking wet,” Kitten whispers to Lexy.
“What did you say? I can’t hear you,” says Lexy.
“I’m fucking wet!” Kitten yells.
After the show, the teenage waste cluster in the parking lot. Lexy and Kitten lean against a car, chain smoking with friends that’d been lost in the crowd. Lexy holds court with a soliloquy about her creepy boss at her part time bagel shop job, yammering on about how she likes that he buys her alcohol and lets her drive his Audi around the block. An uncharacteristically quiet Kitten looks around, searching for Stevie, who is nowhere to be found.
Dejected, she yanks at Lexy’s sleeve and pouts, “Let’s go home soon— Actually, fuck…”
In that moment of defeat, her ears perk to Stevie’s surprisingly masculine vocal fry in the distance. That vocal fry lures her gaze to his bobbing face. She stares at him coquettishly until their eyes lock. Stevie raises his eyebrows, puts his hands in his pockets, and struts toward her.
“Oh hey, cute emo girl. There you are,” Stevie towers over Kitten but hunches himself slightly, performing shyness.
Lexy glares at him, but he doesn’t see her. He’s locked in on a flustered, blushing Kitten.
“Hey Stevie,” Kitten gleams. “You were so good tonight. I love that new song.”
“Thanks, Kitty,” Stevie says, performing humility. “I wrote that song when I was going through a lot. I think it healed me.”
“Mmm,” she looks up at him, trying to feign an experienced sexual energy in her girlishness, “what are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing yet…” he bites his lip, sucking on his piercing. “Wanna come over?”
“Yeah.”
Too easy.
Kitten winces at Lexy and whispers, “I’m sorry, babe. I’m gonna go with him. I’ll call you tomorrow… I love you… I’m sorry, okay?”
She turns her head and scurries away before Lexy can contest, following Stevie to his van, and climbing into the mouth of the passenger’s seat.
“I’m just five minutes down the street,” he winks, driving into the night’s uncertainty.
The apartment down the street is a kitchenette stacked with dirty dishes, a couch, a coffee table, a TV, a multi-CD stereo, a couple guitars, amps, pedals, and a full sized bed shoved into the corner. The apartment is carpeted and reeks of cigarettes.
“Do you have any roommates?” Kitten asks.
“Nope, just me,” Stevie dangles his fingers on Kitten’s shoulder. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable.” He clicks the stereo on and screamo fills the silence. “Wanna smoke, emo girl?”
“Ummm, no thanks, but you can.” She fumbles onto the couch.
Stevie takes a hit of a foggy bong. The water bubbles and smoke fills the room. Kitten notices her skirt riding up and pulls it down. Stevie coughs. It’s an incessant, gaglike, juvenile cough.
“Nice cough, pussy,” Kitten jabs. Stevie likes that.
“You’re lucky I don’t pin you down and blow smoke in your mouth,” he says.
“No thanks,” she rolls her eyes. “I don’t wanna catch your herpes.”
“Oh yeah?” Stevie grabs Kitten by the back scruff of her hair and shoves his tongue through her lips, devouring her mouth. Kitten leans deeper into him, licking back vigorously. He pulls away. “Looks like you have herpes, too,” he smirks.
“Fuck,” Kitten gasps, “keep making out with me.”
Stevie tilts her back on the couch and climbs on top of her. Her skirt pulls up and he humps between her legs with his skinny jeans, their tongues slosh and Kitten submits to the actualization of this fantasy. She is his, she admits to herself, and he can do anything he wants to her. She digs her nails under his shirt and he thrusts lower. He’s hard. She wants him to take his pants off. She feels his hard cock, under a layer of denim and she suddenly remembers her tampon.
The fantasy shatters. Panicking internally, she remembers that she’s on her period and is wearing a tampon; a deep, bloody tampon. An oblivious Stevie continues to hump and lick.
Okay, technically, her period’s almost over and she might not even bleed on him, she thinks to herself. But then again, she’ll probably bleed no matter what because she’s a virgin, right? He’ll probably like that she’s a virgin, right? But that’s not even the problem. He can’t find out about the tampon…Fuck, this is embarssing. She decides she should excuse herself to the bathroom. She keeps kissing him. No, she can’t go to the bathroom. She doesn’t want this to stop. She wants to revel in this. She’ll deal with the tampon later. She resubmits to him, clawing her fingers through his thick black bang, exposing his pimply forehead. Underneath it all, Stevie’s just a boy.
“You have beautiful eyes,” Kitten whispers.
“I wanna bite you,” he yelps.
“Rawr, bite me.”
Kitten wraps her legs around him and he flops her arms over her head like a doll and pulls her shirt off, then his. Stevie stands up and kicks off his pants, cock throbbing in purple American Apparel boxer briefs. He pounces back onto her, teething her red nipples, so eager on her porcelain chest. He smells like cigarettes, sweat, and Axe body spray. Kitten likes it. Dirty love. She feels glamorous in his trashed apartment, with her tits out but skirt still on gathered around her hips.
Stevie comes up for air. “Are you a virgin, Kitty?”
“No,” she lies.
Stevie thrusts into her, boxers still on.
“Oh my god,” Kitten moans, “oh my god…”, she remembers her tampon again. Maybe he won’t notice it, maybe he’ll just put it in, maybe the tampon will be stuck up there forever, she thinks; maybe, she panics internally again, maybe, if that’s the case… It will be worth it.
Stevie stands up again and this time, takes off his boxer briefs. His cock flicks out at a straight 90 degree angle for her. It doesn’t seem very big. She’s accepting. She can do this. She wants this so bad, she tells herself. Stevie pulls off her skirt and panties and climbs on top of her, guiding his cock to her hole while kissing her neck.
Okay good, she thinks. The tip of his cock doesn’t feel her tampon string. He doesn’t notice it. It’s happening.
He thrusts into her and lets out a high pitched moan. “Fuck, you’re tight.”
Kitten’s tampon slides to the roof of her cervix. Stevie thrusts again, harder this time. She wraps her arms around him. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s not explosive pleasure, either. It’s…just fine.
“Wait, wait,” Kitten grabs Stevie’s face, “don’t cum in me. I don’t wanna get pregnant.”
“Okay, okay, no problem,” he grunts, face beet red and veiny, forehead pimples pulsing. He thrusts again and kisses her with his tongue. One more thrust and he lets out a course moan, “Ah fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”
He pulls out his wet cock and with two light strokes of his left hand, he cums into his right hand.
“You’re amazing,” he says, getting up to wash his hands in the kitchen sink.
Kitten lays on her back, fully naked, legs spread. Her inner labia splays out on her outer lips, like two delicate orchid petals with a candy heart in between; her tampon indistinguishable in her pussy’s pink abyss. She sighs.