Without coffee or remorse

 
 
I like cops and married women for  
the same reasons:  
They’re pissed at the world,  
they fuck fast  
and they  
keep their  
mouths shut.  
 
So I texted a cop  
I’d once done a ride-along with,  
because while
I read porn,  
my husband
and our girlfriend  
talked about  
 
baby names.  
 
It punched a hole  
in me.  
Something gaping
and ugly.  
And I wanted to fill it.  
With you.  
 
With you.  
 
I wanted to feel all that  
tension,  
that heat
that animalistic  
lust that makes me insane
that makes me forget
the only thing I’m better  
at than being Barbie
(plastic, perfect, meticulous)  

is fucking Ken dolls.  
 
So I borrowed a body.  
 
Tonight you were my height,  
too tall for a woman,  
average for a man
our foreheads touched,  
and I breathed in your exhale
 
I like the way  
his shoulders  
bulge from his gym-rat ways
and I like the way  
his pecs break out in  
chills as  
I run my teeth on his neck
 
I like the  
way he gets helpless  
when I peel off  
my shirt  
and let him touch  
what thousands of  
miles of running  
does to a body.
 
To my body.  
 
He groaned
when I straddled him  
in the passenger side  
of my car,  
in a back corner lot  
of a store that closed  
a few years back.  
 
He said he missed  
the way  
I feel.  
 
I closed my eyes
thinking of the texture  
of your work shirt,  
plastered with sweat  
staining my polywhatever  
pink blouse,  
torment sliding down my  
thighs in a punishing  
staccato  
 
and waited to feel  
 
anything.