If Essential Workers Are Heroes, Then I’m A Horny Non-Essential Villain

By: Maya Davis

It all began one boring quarantine afternoon. I was about to sexually devour myself out of sheer boredom, like I do most days around 4pm, but when I went to turn on my vibrator, KAPOW! The batteries were dead. Oh no! How would I finger fight my inner demons today? I did what I thought any modern woman balling hard on unemployment checks would do, I got my C batteries delivered to my door!

I was beyond excited to duel with the pink Abomination when the negative thoughts entered my mind and my conscience came tumbling after: Is maturbation essential? Did Instacart’s Michael D really need to risk his life at my nearest Jewel-Osco just so I could bust my lady nut? If delivery workers are heroes, am I a villain for using instacart to order batteries for my vibrator? Unfortunately while I was waging this philosophical war in my mind, Michael D was already en route to my apartment. 

My evil streak continued a few days later. It was late at night, the sky was filled with wind and rain and I was hulking out to my favorite justice league hentai. Black Canary was getting fucked in a Flash, when the unthinkable happened: my vibrator died again! I wasn’t prepared to take my Batmobile into manual so in a deeply horny fury I opened the GoPuff app on my phone and ordered more batteries. This time knowing I was putting an innocent worker out on the dangerous streets of rona-ridden Chicago, solely for my selfish, sinful pleasure. He could die for my one woman orgy, but I didn’t care. I felt like a super villain, a real Mr. Sleeze. BLAM! It became official that night, the GoPuff guy was Superman and I was the Lex Luthor of my sex dungeon. 

But soon jerkin my merkin wasn’t even feeding me. My evil urges for physical contact were taking over my mind and body. The pure evil was running through my veins. Much like the Joker’s immunity to poison, I was certain that I was immune to the virus, so it didn’t matter who I brought into my world. And like any Super Karen, I felt entitled to what I wanted, and I wanted sex.

The next time Delivery Captain America brought over the batteries I did not click the option for contactless delivery. I was mad with power. I made him march up my 5-floor-walk-up just because I could. When he knocked on my door, I answered and thanked him for being so brave and for risking his life. I could tell he was smiling under his protective mask. It was time to channel Stacy X and give off my mutant strength pheromones if I wanted to get laid. I accidentally-on-purpose brushed his hand with mine as he handed me my spoils of war. I said, “Oops, I’m so sorry! Would you like to come in and wash your hands in my immaculate bathroom?” He couldn’t resist.

He stepped into my lair and marveled at my naked body almost right away, because I got naked right away. There was no time to waste. WHAM! SEDUCTION! Let’s just say, those batteries were no longer required and he started calling me Poison Pussy. In other words, I gave a whole new meaning to Lady Deathstroke. That is to say, I rode his bat pole. I guess what I’m getting at is I fucked an essential worker into oblivion. 

But like many villains, my story ends tragically. I contracted covid-19 that night. It turns out Delivery Clark Kent was a symptomless carrier of the virus. I thought I was his kryptonite but as it turns out, the virus was mine. I lay here writing this from a sex dungeon turned death bed, to heed this warning: Buy your C batteries in bulk. To misquote Batman, “You either die the delivery hero, or you masturbate enough to become the villain.”