not my secret

i recently saw a ‘post secret’ that showed a picture of the Chicago skyline, with a circle drawn around a window in one of the buildings. the caption read, “this is where i fucked your fiancé.”

i thought of you, Rachel.

i still fantasise that we will meet in Chicago.
i still fantasise that we will fuck in a hotel, and it will be a place we’ll never want to leave.

third time

more drinks than expected for a monday night.
last minute arrangements. dinner, eight friends, no cares, laughs.
a girl friend, who i’ve never fucked, sits opposite and is more boisterous than most.
she’s fit in all the right ways, and she squeals too often for my liking.
i do however, like the width of her hips.
an innuendous joke illicits her to say to my wife, “orgy at your place tonight!”
we all laugh. we thought she was a lesbian. i call her on it, and she denies it by calling out,
“orgy at your place tonight!”
we all laugh, again, but my wife less so. she doesn’t like to share me.
the red wine is replaced by something more spiritous, and dangerous.
my wife pulls me aside, stumbling, and slurs in my ear,
“if she says it a third time, i’m in, but i get to fuck her first.”

lust looking back

i saw a small sex video, where a woman was getting slapped on the face while getting fucked. it made me hard, and confused. at first i was conflicted, thinking that i’d just unsurfaced a rape fantasy that i never knew i had. watching the video on repeat, over and over, i  realised that it wasn’t the slap i was turned on by, but the fucking lust in her eyes. she wanted this guy to fuck her so fucking much, that she didn’t mind getting slapped. that’s what made me hard. i want to feel that kind of lust looking back at me next time i fuck. i don’t want to slap you, i just want you not to care what i do to you.

mistake you

my head is a blur, bathing in caffeine, and the thunder
gives me a hard-on, not helping me take
my mind off you-
-r taunting (almost sauntering)
words. write me a love
song, a poem, a letter, a-
-nything to feed my incessant, ridiculous
you-obsession, unless i might break in two
halves, three halves, which is something
that coffee, and storms, and masturbation
can’t fix. oh, fuck, now the rain is blowing
in through the open window. is that you?
before i close it. write me, so i don’t
mistake you for the rain.