The guy at the bar is wearing a T-shirt that says “Honey Badger Don’t Care.” He’s skinny enough for the shirt, but he cringes when he takes a sip from his bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

I wonder if he can fuck a girl like me and really not care.

I like to tell myself that I’m not that ugly. I’ve studied my reflection enough times to believe that my cheeks aren’t that chipmunk-like, that my teeth aren’t too big, that my forehead isn’t too high. Those features are all I know, but self-confidence is a difficult thing to maintain when you live in a society that judges everything on face value.

Having bangs and makeup help.

So do paper bags.

I should have been offended the first time a guy said he’d only fuck me if I covered my face the entire time. Truth is, I was tired of being defensive. It was easier to allow myself the privilege of being selfish, because the guy was suave and sexy and entirely worth banging, the sort of guy I’d never bang if it wasn’t for the one condition he stipulated.

So I swallowed my pride.

It was scary, at first. His breaths got heavy as soon as I slipped the paper bag over my head. He kept calling me his Little Fuck Doll and I laid there imagining that I was the broken-headed Barbie I owned as a k**. He grabbed my tits, squeezed them hard. I never asked him to stop. My reactions just made him try harder. He propped my legs over his shoulders and he fucked me maniacally, his grunts echoing over my covered face, his sweat dripping, leaving spots on the paper bag. He fucked me so hard that I came before he did. When he finished, he pulled the bag off my head and he asked me if I liked it. I was so high off the endorphin rush of climaxing that I couldn’t even answer the question. I just laid there and grinned.

A broken Barbie’s an easy fix. Just press her head on good.

There’s a fresh paper bag inside my purse. I dig it out and set it on top of the bar and that’s when the guy in the honey badger shirt looks over. To be fair, he notices the bag first. Then he looks at me. He meets my gaze and he scrunches his face.

The features he sees are the chipmunk ones, but I’m okay with that. Honey badgers will eat practically anything.

He walks up with his poser beer and leans against the bar. “So uh, you’re that girl, right?”

“Yup,” I say.

“Like, the paper bag girl?” he asks.

I glance at the bag on the counter and I look back at him.

He takes a sip from his beer and he laughs. “I thought people were joking about you.”

“Nope,” I say. “I’m legit shit.”

“That’s sweet,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s just straight up dope, isn’t it?”