Sick. sicker. (sickest)

It’s not a real rape if I just  
fuck your body, babydoll.  
Because you can fly away from me  
crawl away the next morning with  
your soul and your virtue intact.  
 
I want to pit my highly-tuned runner’s body  
against your soft, feminine curves.  
I want to get you drunk  
shitfaced drunk,  
and whisper things that sound like lies  
and feel like need  
as I pull your insecure form against mine.  
 
And it’s going to be gentle.  
It’s going to be kind.  
I’m going to look you in the eye,  
tell you how fucking beautiful  
you are, and how the way your  
ass looks in those jeans makes  
my palms itch;  
until the curtain of your blonde  
hair tumbling over your shoulders,  
mixes with the dark of mine, and  
we create art with a kiss.  
 
you pull away, because you’re not like that  
 
that’s what makes it good for me  
that’s what makes you the victim, babydoll  
 
I lead you to the bedroom,  
and  
break you slowly,  
trailing the tip of my finger  
along your skin the way  
(he) never knew you wanted,  
biting the side of your neck,  
pulling your hair,  
drinking your mouth like  
a chalice of sangria  
and you push me away.  
 
Because you’re not like that.  
 
Sweet girl,  
like it fucking matters.  
 
I don’t need to tie you down  
spread eagle,  
but I do, so you can hide  
and the ties free you.  
 
It’s not your fault, baby, it’s not your fault  
you didn’t ask for it.  
 
And when I kneel on your shoulders and  
fuck myself in your face, my  
wetness dripping down my smooth flesh,  
my tense thighs shaking against your cheeks,  
you’ll turn away, close your eyes,  
leave.  
 
But when I make love to your body  
with tongue and kind teeth and  
you know you’re truly  
fucking  
worshiped  
on the altar of my lust,  
when I spread you with my hands  
and lave your traitorous flesh,  
feel the tingle of your juices on my face,  
and you cry out,  
heartbroken...  
“no...”  
as your hips buck up to meet my mouth  
 
because you are fucking just like that, babydoll  
because I fucking said you are  
 
And you’ve done well, and I brought you there again,  
untied you, and held you against my breasts  
like you were a child.  
I let you find your morality and  
I let you strain against it,  
and finally sigh in my arms,  
giving in  
to how good we fucking are.  
 
It’s so good for me then.  
 
Because this is rape.  
Ripping that beautiful white soul of yours in half  
preying on your doubt,  
your desperation,  
your confusion,  
your fucking shame  
 
making you crawl away,  
when you want to curl up in me  
and let it all make sense again,  
figuratively fucking your dignity  
in the ass  
as you go.  
 
Pushing you off me,  
throwing you out the door  
sobbing, confused,  
clothes still in your arms,  
hair tousled so beautifully  
the poets would die to describe it,  
tenderly licking away a tear at the  
corner of your eye  
and slamming the door behind me  
 
without so much as a ‘thanks for a good time, whore.’  
 
I stand in an upstairs window.  
Watch you try to pull on your baby-doll  
t-shirt, over those lush breasts and  
tiny waist.  
Watch you try to dress while  
doubled over  
in sobs.  
 
Watch you slide down  
the wall and cover your face.  
 
The world doesn’t know how beautiful  
going to hell  
looks at 4 a.m.  
 
But I do.  
 
It looks like you  
broken on  
my doorstep,  
and it feels like  
sunrise.  
 

 
NOTE: This is a FANTASY for the 'Become the rapist' contest. No cute blondes were actually harmed in the making of this poem... however if any are offering... (Just kiddin'.) Thank you. Drive through.
(Here's the contest link iffun youse don't believe me
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/competitions/read/3093/ )