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Drink
Then you remember how you take it and you want to pull it into you, for it to work you over, dusk shushing day. There. You’ve admitted it. After you step out of sensation, that silky dress, shrug into shame, and return, you recall the afternoon you fucked the security guard on top of a parking garage while a neighboring rooftop party saw and began to watch, but you weren’t about to stop now, so you kept on; exposed for being the kind of girl you are. You imagine how it will feel, not long from now, when images meld, particulars scatter, when the body’s ceaseless clanging burnishes, almost too simply, to a single flossy peal. Your shoulders tense slightly as you sense the clock’s progress, its second hand shoving tenaciously forward. You slap each minute down like cards in hands of blackjack you win and win and win. The hour sits like a man at the end of the bar working up his nerve to come over. For now you wait. It isn’t anguish or an ache, it’s nothing like a low, ravening growl because you know when it’s time, he’ll pick up a glass, split the din and smoke, stride past the swaying drunks mirrored in the radiant brass, thighs swinging like pendulums, and find you. In the dark he’ll sing your name, raise each syllable like a hammer ringing air, fill up every vowel with his heavy throaty song because you deserve it, it’s what you deserve, it’s your birthright, primeval as the thing rocking his hips, and he’ll give it to you good for being the kind of girl you are. Back
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