Kat George

While they have common characteristics—a lone, often single humanoid in the company of a couple (and sometimes a really super cute, tiny little puppy the couple just added to the fold) with whom they are not sexually or romantically involved—third wheels come in many shapes and sizes, and often serve quite a functional purpose for said couple.

Aside from bagels, the statue of Liberty and Sarah Jessica Parker’s foot face (have you ever stopped to consider just how much her face looks like a foot? I mean, seriously?) the street cry is one of the most ubiquitous symbols of New York City.

When I was growing up, my wonderful yiayia had a tight routine for keeping us kids healthy and rosy cheeked. Imported from the village where she herself grew up, she bestowed certain wisdoms upon us with the enigmatic knowing of an ancient apothecary. Not only did I thrive in health throughout my childhood, I continue into adulthood with the habits my yiayia engrained in me from my earliest youth.

Behind every great man, there is a great lady. In this case, it’s Charli Baltimore—a woman willing to do hard jail time for Ja’s indiscretions (but it’s OK because he totally pimps out her cell and makes sure she has cigarettes, drugs, hair dye and protection while she’s in there, proving that on the flipside, every lady needs a thug).

The night was still; completely silent. The dim light of downtown Tulsa cast only a slight glow over the living room, but what illuminated the darkness most was the moon. In the absolute peace of the moment, I was restless—it was almost impossible to sleep in the stifling, soundless hours of the early morning.

Among other things, I wrote a story about a female centaur-Pegasus type creature with very large breasts that were described in minute detail; a whole “book” about Jesse Owens which I illustrated, laminated and bound myself and some short crime fiction, including a story about a girl whose little brother disappeared behind a bush when they were playing in the yard, before she found him bloodily and mysteriously murdered.

I’m not convinced first time sex needs to be this bad for women, or bad at all for that matter. All it takes is a ‘can do’ attitude, a little bit of bravado, and Bob’s your uncle—you’ll be having great sex before you know it.

…They take a seat next to you and order their drinks. The Englishman orders a craft beer, the Australian orders a bud and the American orders a beer and a shot. They’re all pretty cute, but you don’t know which one you like best. Your bedroom eyes are jumping from face to face as you contemplate your next move. It’s like sexual choose your own adventure.

And now. Now she let other men kiss her, their dry lips desperately pushing against hers, their rogue fingers, in a lascivious endeavor, finding their way through labyrinth of undergarments to her bare skin. She would close her eyes in these moments, sometimes so tight she thought they would bleed, or perhaps be sucked back into her skull.

What happens to the little boys, who, exposed to the warm blush of fame as children, are forced to simultaneously grow and be silver screen stars? I’ve looked up some of the most well known baby faces of the 90s to see what happened when our favourite little boys grew up to be big hairy men…

Mine is very fine; it feels vaguely like the downy back of a duckling if you brush your finger upwards against the grain. It’s lighter in the middle but towards the edges of my mouth it becomes a little darker, and a little thicker, and if you lean in close you can definitely see it.

As I get older (every day closer to spinsterhood, I’ve even started breeding cats), and the likelihood of finding the perfect man seems increasingly like some obscure, intangible dream, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Desperate times call for desperate measures, gentle reader.