Can we just flash forward
to the petty, sweaty, fumbling,
tumbling grope and grab
presaged by your first breathy
grunt of "You're so hot" in my ear,
warm moist exhalation and chin stubble
just as irritating as this untoward advance?
I know myself all too well-
I have lived this night
too many times and
I am so fucking tired
of swallowing my nausea
of subsuming my pride
of sacrificing my self
to testosterone's
hair-trigger
and of being repulsed
by any touch the morning after.
My cup runneth over.
Old news.
I quit.
Who's next?
(copyright a(scetic)verse, February 24, 2009)
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