Dear Girl who I fancied when I was eighteen
I am glad you did not sleep with me.
I think our orgasms would have been sub-par.
I imagine you at climax
Breaking sweat and gurning
As if passing a peach stone
Then I flip you like the chairs in primary school
And twist-push into your sphincter –
I know you’re tired and really don’t enjoy it
But these days it’s the only way
I can come.
Afterwards I would sit in bed and read a paperback.
You would lie on your side
And occasionally grimace
Picturing perhaps the piles
Of undone laundry downstairs.
Dear Girl, I am glad I did not convince you
To let me ejaculate in your mouth.
I would have been clumsy and rough.
You deserved better
Than my inexperienced thrusts
Whap-whapping your punchbag tonsils
Till White Russian uddered out your nostrils.
I would have bored you
With my constant need for reassurance,
Gagging you on my cock
Until you spluttered:
I love you
Through yellow bubble-vomit.
Dear Girl who just wanted to be friends,
Well, friends it is, good choice!
Same favourite Blur songs is a poor basis
For raising a family.
Our combined faces pasted onto a baby
Would frighten cattle
Plus years of mutual antipathy would leave us
Lantern-jawed and brittle.
You’d be smashed on mother’s ruin
Screeching at the scuttle-brats
Face hanging like a latex mask
Left too long by the furnace.
Whilst I, upstairs,
Took my affair with your mother
To the ‘next level’
Noisily
To the theme tune from Bergerac.
