I LIKE MEN

I like men. I like their

Slack jawed enthusiasm, the way that they can look

dormant or at least very dumb, but

at the mere suggestion of

Female sexual availbility

They rise;

quivering, attentive, bold.

 

Take this fucking asshole, cracking

troubling jokes and acting cocky, they

call him "Hot Flash" (Why? Why

"Hot Flash"? An inside joke that

nobody's inside) But still

I'm listening. He's beligerant, pig-

faced and manic but

I decide to fuck him anyway. This

is something I do:

 

I fuck the ones with curly tails and

pickleable feet. I fuck

the morally undergrown.

 

I kiss him. He's frenetic, a lively

little sausage in its casing,

popping a trifling rock-hard boner

A hot, livid spur behind his zipper.

 

I swear to god he's hopping up and down,

all five-foot-three of him bright red,

it's like he's angry.

 

I'm drunk and promptly bored, so

unsurprised by this that I'm surprised

that anything could be so unsurprising.

 

The thing I really can't abide is the

image of his round yellow head rocking back

and forth between my perfect, blameless legs as he gives me

Really awful head. He's

got no feel for it, he's tuneless and

this wasn't about me anyway so

I stop him with

 

I admit, little ceremony and

he looks up from down there,

sweaty brow furrowed,

My good legs framing

His shitty face.

I smile weakly, twisting

up and out from under,

and then

 

Right then,

his eyes fill with pretty little tears.

I like men!

 

He's crowned with tears for me then,

a boozey baby Jesus

Limbs paddling the air, tongue

a waggling wisp,

hungry,

beyond shame.

 

 

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