One Night Stand

Her one nighters she concedes, could form a long line
From the Bastards, the Dickheads to the rare divine.
Long gone, most forgotten, well as much as she’s able
Their smell lingers on her like penalty in a fable

It wasn’t that she intended to be such a whore
More her desperate longing, made for irresistible chores
She’d given of her most precious for a smile and kind stroke
Surrendered without fight, for the hold after the poke.
She’d got down and grunted, got down deeper and dirty
When what she craved really, was just to be flirty.

She’s forgotten (if she ever knew) what it is that she likes
In her effort to please, she’s become a cliché, the bike.
So ride her. Push hard for selfish destination
She’ll moan and accept with false fevered elation.

And after with a courtesy not shown before
Manners stop him running for the nearest door
She’ll make coffee and run him a hot bubble bath
They’ll both fix a smile on, even manage to laugh.

But when he’s in her tub, soaping her scent away with vigour
Alone now just her, silence becomes realities trigger
She hears small splashes, pictures him scrubbing with brush and soap
Did they use a condom, or just false careless hope?

Shame and guilt, unbidden and unwelcome, rise from deep within
She’s a modern no-crap woman, so why does this feel like sin?
She’ll hide this nonsense under bright made-up mask
Ignoring with great practice, the question she is too afraid to ask…..

‘Why is it not like i know it should be?
Is it something I lack, something wrong deep in me?’

She’d hoped for gentle kisses after, down the nape of her neck
As she lay places for breakfast, on a sun-dappled deck.
From behind, he was supposed to wrap her, as tight as passion permits
It goes without saying, she has firm perky tits.
So her robe can fall open, heedless of his gaze
Her body in rapture, her mind in a daze
Her nipples harden under cool wisp-like silk
She gasps at his touch and trembling, spills the milk.

This isn’t just one night of passion and lust
It’s the start of a lifetime, of loving and trust.

In reality, some elements seem to be missing
For starters, that’s not her neck that he’s kissing
Number one problem, she’d say is her Robe
Doesn’t even call it that, if truth be told.
It’s not the coolest silk, doesn’t lay in sensual folds
It’s thick terry towelling, because her bathroom is cold.
Her dressing gown, that’s what she calls it,
Is the opposite of sexy. There she admits it.

It's what's hidden beneath that's her greatest issue
Her tits don’t perk, unless her bra’s stuffed with tissue
But left on their own, they droop and they sag
If her ‘robe’ fell open, she’s sure he would gag.
And then there’s her home, or seductions setting
There is no deck to lay places, whilst letting
His hands run unhindered over flab and fold
No! She could not breathe out or relax in his hold
No history or shared times to bring them together
His eyes show no pity for how times cruel weather
has loosened taut skin and mocks once easy pleasure
And why should they show anything but his own sight
He owes nothing but a few hours in the dark of the night

There are no sun-dapples on her non-existent deck
Just her kitchen, a stinking, filth strewn wreck
Her table is stained with cheap pungent red wine
Dog-ends sit in foul ash puddles, like some hellish brine
Cold grey kebab meat, pale chillies, long like rats tails,
His credit card, hints of faint white powdery trails.

She sighs, leans her hands on the back of a chair
A sudden sting, she flinches, grabs her finger and pinches
She sucks at it deeply, blood coating her tongue
Searches slow heavy head, for how it was done.
She remembers she smashed it, let it fall from her grasp
She had worse problems then, his finger up her arse.
No time to clean away, make safe the viscous slivers
Another line crossed and more innocence withered

He wanders back in, clean, sheepish, bath done.
If she had her dreams, she wasn’t the only one
He’s woken in Elm Street, she can see in his face
Shag when you’re pissed, then leg it at haste.
And the girl that he pulled, was, well a girl for a start!
He's reminded of old westerns. A tart with a heart?

She needs, yearns to shower, exfoliate and soap
And that before she sinks in the bath to soak.
Last night so he stayed she gave all that she must
Now she’s scared for her belongings, how could she trust
him left alone whilst she locks the bathroom door
Or worse leaves it open, an invitation to more?

They search for the minimum polite time to take
Finally peck cheeks like strange cousins, meeting at a wake
With murmured I’ll call you, they don’t meet at the eyes
When he doesn’t, it’s relief and no great surprise.
He’s gone at last and she begins to clear
Her home, her body, a remnant tear.
Why she cries she’s not sure, but she vows never again, again.
She can’t keep on doing this and keep herself sane.

Her dream is the cruellest of parody, bears no resemblance to reality,
She knows that much, can’t deny what she’s seen
But seven days till next weekend
and six lonely nights in between.

******