You Want Me
by Lacey Martinez

You don’t know my name but you see me every day. I’m 20 feet tall, towering over you on the freeway. I float in a white void on the billboard. I don’t need a background. I’m all anyone needs to see, arching my back on a blue exercise ball, dressed in black yoga shorts and a red sports bra. Ostensibly I’m selling athletic apparel to your depressed aging wife and your moody teenage daughter, but really I’m taunting you.

I make you ache every morning on your way to work. I haunt your headspace. My image sears your retina, scorches your optic nerve. My tendrils dig deep into your gray matter and take root.

You have an active imagination. You fantasize fantastical scenarios in which we meet. It makes your limp heart race just wondering if you could strike up and sustain a conversation with me without it devolving into a litany about my looks and all the unimaginative pornographic things you want to do to me. Your dick in my mouth. Your tongue in my pussy. You fool. We’ll never meet. We’re barely on the same planet. You worm’s thumb. You slug’s lung. You sick sad pathetic lump, slouching in your cubicle, hiding under your headphones, fingerbanging your keyboard, eyes half asleep between spreadsheets as your mind wanders back to me.

You google ‘beautiful woman + blue ball + red bra + yoga’ but you can’t find me in cyberspace. Google all you want, I only exist on that billboard and in your demented broken brain. I’m a new breed of model. The unbranded brand. No name, no birthday, no hometown, no height and weight and measurements, no interviews talking about my favorite foods. I remain anonymous. A face and body towering over you, ordering you to bend the knee.

You enjoy this, don’t you? Deifying women. Putting us on a pedestal. Convincing yourself that we’re other. It’s just another way to push us away. To make us less real.

You rationalize your desire for me by telling yourself I’m photoshopped, I’m an idiot, my beauty’s a curse. But the truth is I’m real, I’m smart, and the only curse of my beauty is the lust and rage it fills you with. The unrepentant want it inspires. That unscratchable itch within your bone marrow, festering.

You’ll never smell my pheromones, hear my voice, taste my tongue. All you’ll ever get is this glimpse on your morning commute, the best and worst moment of your heartbreakingly lackluster life. Here I am again, 8:46 a.m. like clockwork. You grip your steering wheel harder. In your dreams you’re worshiping at my feet. In your nightmares I’m stepping on your neck. I float in a white void on a blue ball. I’m perfect, superhuman, godly, lonely. I’m 20 feet tall and I don’t have a name.

Lacey Martinez has been published in Word Riot, PANK, Used Furniture Review, Wigleaf, and elsewhere. Visit her online at


Alana Noel Voth said…


Slam dunk.




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