Bar Oussou 10 April 2017
There’s poetry about a screw
There’s poetry in screwing
Is there poetry in being screwed?
He sat in a chair, fully clothed.
He said to her, “Take your clothes off.
Leave your underwear.”
If she’d asked, “You want me to striptease?”
He’d have said, “No. Just take them off.
Come over here. Squat … facing me.
And if she’d said, “That’s a bit hard on my knees.”
He’d have said, “OK, go to the kitchen, bring back a chair.
Sit facing me. Spread your legs. Everywhere!”
But they were not her responses.
“No,” she said, “I don’t like this.
All you want to do is objectify me.
Who do you think you are?
Kneel before you on your throne?
You’re just a man not a king.”
At these words, he felt himself losing his erection
He was after frisson, not friction
She was taking over, he knew how this went
She’d talk him round, gain his enfeebling consent
And they’d continue like all the other times they’d spent.
He’d close his eyes and desperately try to inflate his libido by thinking of someone else
in some other situation, some other position.
But no, not this time.
This time, some sense of poetry grabbed him by the scruff of his manhood.
He said, “Yes, I want to be your king
I chose you for my queen
This room is our chapel, here we worship each other
This between us, this our treasure.
I want my woman to give me pleasure
If not you, who else will take my measure?”
Still she resisted.
“But not like this,” she persisted.
“Yes I’ll give you pleasure
Yes love is a treasure
To be measured equally.
What you want is all about
You. What’s in it for me?”
He took his left hand
Picked up her right hand
Held it to his heart
He took his right hand
Picked up her left hand
Held it to her heart
In love’s orbit
They gazed at one another
Eliptically apart … of each other.
Or so he thought.
She seemed reassured by this new direction
Emboldened by his action
He got a little frisky
Took a little risky
And he liked to be blunt.
“This how it goes
First you kiss my cock till I yell, ‘Thar she blows’
Then I kiss your cunt until you curl your toes.
That’s what’s in it for you, for me, for us.”
She snatched her hands away.
“This is all about power.
You want a little slut with nothing on her mind but how she’s told to fuck.
Talking dirty makes me feel unclean.
If that’s what gets you hard
I want no part of it.”
Still, she didn’t move away
He took his right hand
Put it between her thighs
He took her left hand
Wrapped it round his penis
His poet was mute
Her hand was slack
There they sat
Both of them
“Sorry.” He began to cry.
“I don’t mean to degrade you really
I just thought it would be fun to try – ”
“But darling, that’s fine. There are lots of things we can do.
But don’t you think it should be things I like as well as you?”
She bent forward and gave his little man a tiny kiss.
She lay back. He followed her down into their rut.
He began thinking about a colleague.
He imagined her spread over her desk, naked, legs open wide …