A man with white teeth is not always a man
with good intentions. A man with an olive on a toothpick
is a man with options, a man with several moments to decide
what he wants from his garnish. The pleasure
of licking out the pimento, or the entire olive between his teeth?
This sort of thing I might get to thinking after too many umbrellas
have lost their novelty behind my ear. After too many tongues
have followed suit.
I should never have asked him to fuck me.
Or maybe it was the way I phrased it:
do you think you could fuck me, now?
Do you think, as though he hadn’t considered it yet.
You could, as though maybe he couldn’t.
Fuck me, now, as though it were a time-sensitive issue.
It could’ve been me. I could’ve asked if he thought he could
fuck someone. Or maybe it was you. Maybe I should’ve asked
if there were a fuck in the air, if a fuck was about to take place,
if someone, somewhere, at some point that night
was going to get what she had come for.
For safer sex, I put a tissue over the receiver
when you call. Through a thousand miles of cable,
your wet voice is coming to get me. I say I’m wearing
yellow cotton panties with weak elastic
and a Virginia is for Lovers T-shirt, which is true.
I say, I’m thinking about your really great cock,
which is not true I’m thinking about your
really great apartment, right on the beach.
I say, sure I remember that time I flashed you
in a club on 10th, drunk on Tequila, but was I?
I say, go ahead, baby, I’m ready, and what I mean is,
prepared. A bird sounds outside the window.
Birds, so lucky, flying around, calling to each other
without any pretense of protection. Is it dangerous?
If bird’s bones are hollow, does it follow
that so are their hearts?
Danielle Pafunda and Nerve.com