I have known men. Their kisses are different,
their need is different. Even those out
trolling have desires stronger, deeper
than that of puncturing willing flesh.
Each with their own secret charm,
lure to get you back to their cheap
manly home. Their scent, shoes,
clothes, cars–their thick-tongued lies.
Craving that natural pairing of slick stiff
skin between more moist folds. Though,
beneath it all, below the lines and lies,
they just want to be held. Cradled between
warm globes of women flesh.
That stigma surrounding the delicate
emotions of women is a lie. Sometimes
we just want a quick fuck, as chauvinistic
as the worst of men. Hoping their sweaty
flesh is gone in the morning when the whiskey
wears off.
When they realize the tables have been turned,
there is a look in their eyes–its wounded, angry.
Years of being taught that ladies do not do
this being shoved right in their nameless faces.
Those I remember, last night’s was round with the
bloat of liquor-addiction and stubbley with kind brown
eyes. Last week’s, sharp and rodent like with thick
crimson curls. Though the names elude me.
I wander. Lost. Loving. Until I find one
to hold my attention and my left breast each
night as we pass out in a drunken domestic sleep.
–Jessica Gleason