sex w/whoever

 there comes a time when I need a new story, fresh

drama with which to lace my sordid existence. so I

desert my desk briefly, hoping I might later smudge

a blank page with a lusty & poetic adventure. it

always happens around midnight.

the jeep that I poison the atmosphere with takes me

to a seedy establishment frequented by social outcasts

disguised as ladies & gentlemen. I get my drink &

glance at the other lonely stalkers, clones of my own

depravity.

in the smoky fog of this human orchard, I spot a dark

haired peach who looks ripe for picking. a remark

about her necklace, that I find ‘fascinating,’ gets her

attention. I notice a band of pale skin on her finger,

recently concealed by a wedding ring.

does she have a deserted husband somewhere, drinking

away his misery? I don’t need to know her string of affairs,

her sinful secrets. that’s why they invented condoms.

later, in the motel room, I’m aware of an old emotion that

feels brand new every time: the jolt of that electric coil within,

the spark that flares when you touch another naked body…

when it was over, I took a bit of irony from Mtv, something

I borrowed from Madonna, & I left a note on her pillow:

            ‘thank you, whoever you are.’