I go on a date
with a hot guy whose sick car
makes all the Mikes swoon.
As he drives
he slides a hand to my thigh
claims it’s not fair
my perfect legs have such an effect on him.
I smile shyly and reposition them
to look thinner.
The two of us turn
every head as we enter the club,
The Cure
infuses the air with longing.
We are strikingly beautiful
together. But must exit early and fast
when he spots his “crazy” ex.
Back in my bedroom,
he shows me his
tattoo,
the image of Animal drumming
on his otherwise flawless butt cheek.
“Yup,” I say,
“that’s a Muppet on your ass alright.”
I make out with him anyway,
things escalate quickly, but
I am clear.
I don’t want sex tonight.
He laughs.
Eases me back on my bed.
Pulls a condom
from his back pocket
a teasing smile
on his handsome face
So smug.
So certain
rolls on the rubber,
and coaxes
my perfect legs apart. I
lie rigid, detached,
my thighs wide my
insides dry my
mind
trying to calculate
whether I’m allowed
to feel violated.
I was into him
before introductions to
the ex and Animal.
I taste copper outrage
that I decide to swallow down
along with the urge
to wail on him like the
drumming star of his pumping buttocks.
Ahhhhhh! Ahhhhhh! AHHHHHH!
At least
he’s lightning-quick.
The next morning
when I emerge from my room
Crystal asks
how my date went,
and since the hot guy
with the sick car
and the Muppet butt
is still asleep in my bed
I answer honestly,
“Still happening.”