the gender abyss
women romantacise sex
men don’t give a shit
porn stars and pilots
malevolent land gulls and girls
who smell like parma violets
that roadhouse feel
behind bars or planchas
freshly pressed blondes
sharp nose and sourdough
an unforgivable scene
deep ellum grove
it sounds like a blue note
fleet geeks and herberts
little jack’s corner
coca cola and sherbet
floor her and fawn her
oh, why can’t we just have sex?
you like me and i like you
so why can’t we just do it?
yes, right here in this bus stop
ok, well, maybe not here
but somewhere close by
in the very near future
why can’t that happen?
i don’t understand
no, i don’t want to talk any more
and coffee gives me gas
dinner? don’t push it, love
i just want to have it off with you
you know, in the old fashioned way
naked, just the two of us
no talking, only porking
a date? oh for fuck’s sake
the moment’s going, love
why can’t we just bang?
instead of holding hands
and me trying to make you laugh
and saying anything
to get your clothes off
things along the lines of
“yes, my favourite colour’s teal” and
“no, i want to take my time, too…”
do i shit!
all i want to do is hump you senseless
on the futon back at my flat
it would be great
we could do loooooads of jiggy jig
and then eat jaffa cakes
and watch Match of the Day
what do you say?
what do you mean you’ve got to go?
your bus is here?
the number eight?
brilliant, that’s near where i’m staying
we could bonk on the bus
if you’re running late
or on the steps of your house
if you really can’t wait
hey, don’t look at me like that
like i’m some dirty perv
only after one thing
what a nerve! As if!
is that what you think of me?
we’ve only just met
and all I can think of
is parting your legs?
that is pretty astute, to be fair
is this going anywhere?
i didn’t think so
you made it quite clear
when you called the police
when i sniffed your hair
though, it’s not all bad
the cop shop’s right next to my gaff
i can walk home from there
six legs, six breasts
and the rest
my greatest invention yet
with all three of her heads
they’re tricky to ignore
they’ll leave you impressed
impeccably dressed and manicured
it’s impossibly hard to remove them
from shoe stores
a force to be reckoned with
it might be the night of your life
that stitched-up foursome
of which you’ve been dreaming
but taking part
is not for faint heart
but if you think you can take it
i give you fair warning that
they’re a pretty freaky naked lot
and in the light of the morn
an amputee pawn shop
and if you’re wondering
which one’s the “real” her?
she’ll soon let you know
when she’s full of tequila
on a saturday night
and dancing to bieber
and you try to feel her
and two pairs of legs
remain on the floor
while one pair swing up
and your balls are no more
Rose is a tricky flavor to work with; it is usually applied in its distilled liquid form and a few drops is all you need. It overpowers quickly, consuming your palate and, if you’re not prudent, it can leave you feeling overwhelmed. Giddy, even.
The carriage is redolent with it’s scent. It’s particularly pungent for me because I’m next to the source.
She is sat, leaning forward, head bowed, over the flip down tray in front of her. Every thirty seconds or so, with a delicate flick of her little finger and a pinch of index and thumb, she hovers, selects and then delivers a nugget of Turkish delight to her impatient plump tongue; each gelatinous cube leaving a trace of icing sugar on her lips.
“Mmm.. I lo-ooo-ve pistachio…” she fires across my bow, before swilling her mouth with mineral water and smiling, a fragment of the aforementioned nut lodged resolutely in her front teeth.
Framed against the miserable grey suburbs rolling past the window, her beauty is illuminated.
Natural, unpretentious and laced with the merest promise of decay. Although, I notice her perfume is unpleasant; a strange, sour blend of spray tan and samosas.
Her hands are exquisite. The graceful lines of her wrists don’t disappoint, leading to slender, tapering fingers tipped with a burgundy polish.
Oddly, her every other anatomical feature possesses a most intriguing quality. In fact, one similar to the very confectionery she is consuming now. Turkish delight is always fashioned into slightly misshapen, bloated cubes and she, too, has this burgeoning, retentive design. It’s commensurate with her youth and her glucose consumption, I guess.
Her pert, full breasts strain against the cloth of her top, imprisoned against their will by a black lace bra.
They would release themselves, if they could, I know it, in a riot of common sense.
I journey to the lowlands, the prairie of the ego and begin a sojourn familiar to most males of a certain age when faced with young flesh; a place where time slows to a frame per second or less, where myriad fantasies gallop unfettered, like wild mustangs.
“Would you like one?” Again, the smile. The nut still presiding.
The house of cards tumbles down right on cue.
But I collect myself, shifting my weight in my seat to better face her.
“Yes. Yes, I would, thank you.” I say, smiling and managing to briefly lift my gaze, first to her eyes and then to the hexagonal box of rubbery nubs she’s wafting in front of me.
In a turn of events that I can’t truly remain blameless for, my hand reaches toward the box but skims over the sweets, diving purposefully between the light white cotton of her top and her warm soft skin. Soon, I feel the coarse webbing of her bra grating against the back of my fingers.
I don’t break her stare, her pupils dilate and her jaw slackens, moving almost imperceptibly up and down as I squeeze, her nipple hardening between my thumb and forefinger.
After just the right amount of time, I slowly remove my hand, returning it to my lap. We are still locked deeply, eye to eye.
She looks down and arranges her clothes in silence; time has slowed again, she is being deliberately deliberate, playing with me.
She places the box back on the tray. The elegant crane hovers again, eventually choosing and delivering a piece to me this time.
The soapy skin taste of her thumb works well, I think, supplying another dimension to the orange blossom flavor; she then slowly withdraws it, allowing me to suck clean the powdery residue. She feeds me a few more, delicately, in her measured way.
It’s a memorable experience, particularly fun. At one point, whilst demolishing a dusty lemon blob, she kisses me and for a moment I can’t tell what is sweet and what is tongue; the flavors intensifying with every laborious chew.
Together, we finish the box and sit for a while, licking our fingers and lips.
With a giggle, she lays her hand on my knee and leans in and whispers,
“Hi, I’m Rose.”