This one's for her

In a text,
She explained to me,
It’s a game she wanted to play.
Because,
Today was a dirty day,
For her.

I recognized her mood,
As I walked in the barroom door,
She sat fidgeting,
In her too-tight blouse,
That just covered her,
Un-bra-ed breasts,
Ending well above her,
Too-short-skirt,
With too-tall-socks,
Up over her knees,
Peeking out of the top of,
Her too-tall,
Too-black-boots,
Showing,
Plenty of thigh skin.

A twisting vine of ink,
On her silky thighs,
Leading eyes,
And thoughts,
Where she wanted them to go.

On days like this,
She gets glances from the girls,
Stares from the boys,
Quickly licked lips from both.

Some days it’s the glances,
Today it’s the stares that make her,
Move a moist finger from her lips,
Graze fingertips across her collarbone,
Undo another blouse button,
Trace down her cleavage,
While a crossing/uncrossing of her legs,
Draws those staring eyes,
And the thoughts behind them,
Back down,
To the ink on her legs,
And where it leads.

Today it’s me,
She locks eyes with,
Smiles at,
Motions to join her,
To sit beside her,
In the dark booth,
Hidden,
In the back of the room.

She creates a mix,
Of secret shame,
Guilty embarrassment,
Hidden arousal;
A delicious,
Sticky,
Sweet/sour,
Mental mélange,
That cultivates a dampness,
She wants to grind,
Against the now bulging fabric,
In my lap.

When she’s feeling filthy like this,
What she wants,
Is to climb astride,
Push my shoulders back,
Pull her panties,
To the side,
Unzip me,
Pull me out,
And bless me,
With her downward sliding,
Wiggling,
Writhing,
Squeezing,
Twitching,
Hips.

I know,
That she will drive us,
Through,
A finale that is,
For her.

And I’d best be getting done,
Before,
Or, even better,
Just as she’s done,
Because,
In this mood,
Once she gotten off,
She’s getting off,
Whether I’ve,
Gotten off,
Or not.

Because,
This one’s for her.