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legs spread slightly
(look here! cunt on display
alert all the men)
waiting for the touch of him
in all romance novels the heroine
(who is always waiting in anticipation,
waiting to be smote with his tool o' love)
lies back and is rewarded
what is bad sex?
he fumbles with her clit
pinches it as if it were some fucking
thing to be pinched
she thinks of the girl
the girl who sucked her dry
(exploratory kisses and the soft feel of
breasts against her own)
musing
throbbing in pain as he thrusts
one finger into her
still not wet, you fuckwit

they are to be married
not even a chance to graduate
when she looks into his ordinary
brown eyes she feels sick
she feels like a butterfly pinned
(where are her wings? where are
her fucking wings?)
money speaks, it does
at least her father uses it to speak
dirt brown eyes and red hair that
always looks unbrushed
(lips the color of blood brush against
her own
biting
demanding to be remembered)
when she arrives at soirees
on his arm she smiles gently
the bile rising
lily of the evening
perfume touched on her wrists
and between the breasts
(where he will thrust his face
hours later
her negligee draped over a chair)

he is her kind of people
the girl is not
kohled eyes and cheap jewelry
breasts small and firm
sad smile (not wide and toothy
like his)
what would society do if
they arrived arm in arm at
a party?
beautiful
every man's fantasy
no more nights spent
contemplating the ceiling
as he paws and thrusts
and kisses her wetly
his pupils dilated in excitement

but
money speaks
it speaks clearly
she can smell it
that dirty used smell
she will kiss that girl and
reverently touch her
breasts
in secret
in secret
in secret

when he thrusts into her
she grunts in pain
and smells that dirty used
smell and smiles
the smile is bitter