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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.’



Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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