Bo is hungry. Fuck. Fuck. It's like an itch at the back of her skull, that won't go away until she feeds. Until she kills.
It itches other places too, of course. Bo wants hands that aren't hers on her breasts and stomach and back, and on her pussy, someone else's fingers or cock or tongue.
Her clothes are driving her crazy, so off they go, and then the only reasonable thing to do is take a shower. Bo runs the soap over her body, imagining it's a lover's touch. Male, female, young, old, Bo's tried them all and none of them have survived; Bo imagines a female touch this time, slender dark hand holding the cheap motel soap. The bar skims smoothly over her legs, her feet, up her sides and back and stomach, and Bo lingers on her breasts, rubbing the soft wet skin until the nipples peak. Then up to the neck and face and hair, then let the warm water cascade over her until the suds are all washed away. The feel of the water on her skin is like silk—okay, no it's not, and the water pressure really sucks in this motel, but Bo takes her pleasure where she can find it.
It helps the hunger, a little. Not enough. Bo thinks about masturbating (such an unsexy word), and rubs her fingers across the nub of her clitoris (also an unsexy word, but Bo's hungry), but nothing doing.
Bo can't feed on herself. This isn't the first time she's tried. Bo wonders what would happen if she succeeded, if she'd end up emaciated like people whose bodies cannibalize themselves for lack of other food, and what sort of fucked-up person is she that even that thought is sexy now?
Fucked-up is an appropriate phrase. So is just plain fucked.