Casual Sex

Clutching the hem of Her plaid skirt,
They sit – stitched together like rag dolls.
Delicate, nervous –
eyes like wildfire.
Leaning in, listening intently
to how he writhed, so desperately, beneath Her

Twelve, Thirteen – not a day over Twenty,
black nails, Red Lips, notebooks left empty.

Her cheeks Pink; blusher or embarrassment?
Ribena bottles of burgundy wine,
‘I have no breasts on show’-
Her eyes,
realise,
that I am a malfunctioned female design.

Mind the gap – ‘my gap’.
Thrusting into the darkness,
‘No, I don’t want it hard,
Deep-
you wouldn’t know the meaning of the word!’

Light.
‘Am I sweating?’

Giggles. Unhurt by imagination,
they smile coyly to one another.
Sweat on Her upper lip,
She fixes her gaze upon me,
‘Frigid because at 20, I still say no?
A whore because confidence is over-rated?

She snatches her eyes away and
declares me a walking institute of anarchy.

They sway, together- fluid and untouched,
Rigid, unwavering – I cannot reach her.
But I plead, ‘Testosterone must never get its heart broken’.

This Is Kings Cross.

Clutching sweaty palms, they leap,
and She turns only once to approve her reflection.

My world falls silent and I stand with my

Legs wide open,
heart, reluctantly wider
Because You want so desperately to be inside her
Divide her
Break her inside
Physical pain she may deny
But who will speak for the unforeseen attachment?

You sweat and so does she
The World Applauds You- Standing Ovation.
she washes off Your stench, her blood
The Mighty, Victorious You
she sits,
You stand
The condom wrapper on her nightstand
Remains her only trace of You.

And that is all You want of
us.