Cassandra Dallett

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 17, 2012

Cassandra Dallett occupies Oakland, CA. She hates writing bios and resumes, which is probably why she is unemployed. Cassandra writes of a counter culture childhood in Vermont and her ongoing adolescence in the San Francisco Bay Area. She has published in Hip Mama, The Chiron Review, Bleed Me A River, Ascent Aspirations, Criminal Class Review, Nibble, and The Milvia Street Journal among many others. Look for links on

I Know I’m Addicted

I collect boys

like pairs of shoes

fucking one while texting another

I’m not slutty or desperate

I’m just a realist.

I know that none of them could hold my interest

if they didn’t play off each other like that.

None could talk of the prison industrial complex,

the evils of microwaves, the importance of reading,

start up my weewacker,

and make me want to call him Daddy

while bent over,

streaming wet head

bumping granite walls.

These guys

don’t come in the same package.

The wise man Chris Rock once said

“You’re not going to find a guy who listens to Wu-Tang

and watches Seinfeld”

and I laughed cause I had one,


actually his dick was too small

and he was inherently



to the bone.

Cougar in Scrubs

I want to be pawed

try to force him

in the bathroom

the smell of shit

from the hospital beds around us

I lick his neck

reach in his pants

get no satisfaction

manhandling his tiny frame

I must outweigh him

by at least sixty pounds

force tongue into lips

my bra is too thick

his arms don’t bend right

I’m whispering in his ear

“don’t you miss this”

I pull his

dick to my crotch

wrestle to free nipple

to mouth

here at work

I want him to tell me

he wants me

can’t go another day

without tasting me

and although he agrees

he takes no lead

he is scared

enjoy the chase more than the catch

I can’t tell him that I do too

so much so that if he would only

do it

breakdown and swear

his devotion

I would be free


to not like him anymore

lose interest

walk away.

Sexting At Work

In heat
When you touch me
I go to this other place
U know where I want your hands
On my throat
On my ass
My mouth is moving
Words come out like chants
How can you know
At home I’m silent
Till its over
only when I cum
After an excruciatingly
Long time
Of not even being close
Then I make impressive noises
But its sad
Because the journey should be as fun as the destination
With u its all journey
Every bit is getting there
But if I never get there
I don’t mind
Its just a feeling

like the last piece
In a thousand piece puzzle

Out Drinking Drunks

It’s not fun with you.

I can’t out drink you

I’ve tried.

I monitor the redness

of your eye

the way your cheek squeezes up your face.

Watch for the tone

to change

your words to ring with distrust

subtle at first

I become a loose woman

more whorish

when actually my body

and mind

are frigid now


One too many

and this will be us


These nights I carry a bat

scream I Hate You

spit speckling your red face.

Push you out the gate

lock it.

You climb back over

the fence points

cut gashes that bleed and scab

golden skin.

You plead at my bedroom window.

I wrap myself in blankets

go to another room

where I still hear you.

You are sorry now

you ape baboon.

If I do drink with you

I get mean.

I won’t just tell you I hate you

I yell the reasons

(I’m a list maker by nature)

kick you in the gut

you lose your balance fall over a chair.

Your are huge

but I don’t scare I’m lit


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