"and a fuck-me smirk."
Samantha Marie

Look at me –
we are in this room
in this house
on a night where
you are bored and lonely
and want to prove that you can
have skin on skin,
lips against your neck,
her purring your name,
and I know how this works-
you look at me,
eyes half open,
and I look like the stars
but look at me,
I am no constellation.
I am the OPEN sign
blinking, half-lit,
on a motel lobby door.

I'm fun for the night.
All quick comebacks
and a fuck-me smirk.
Everything I say sounds
like a challenge that
I, by the end of the night,
will have you dying to
accept – because between
the tequila and the beer
and the fact that at least
I am a body,
tell me you won't say no.

I am not stupid.
If this is happening
it is because I am letting it.
So go ahead, tell me
that I am beautiful,
that you want me,
pull me into you
and kiss me on the forehead,
let me think that you care
and I promise I will let
myself believe it.

But don't think about,
do not even think about,
thinking about me the next day.
Because I am one-time use and
toss kind of woman. I am not
the kind of girl that guys love.
If I learned anything,
in twenty years,
it's that I am not an investment.
I am a novelty.

I can no longer stand to fight facts.
This is my white flag to the Universe.
Because pretending to be something you
are not is a pain worse than
the ache of knowing.

I am no a constellation.

Work in progress
"She'll piggyback to the open mike, her fuck-me shoes clicking in her hand. We'll spend"
JJ Hutton

I buy the gluten-free protein bar, peanut butter and chocolate, because this is who I am now. This is me. This is me as a lighthouse of personal fitness, a man of discipline, of a principle or two. And I surf only the most densely populated dating apps, looking—somewhat feverishly, I must admit—for a likeminded woman, a scholar, a child of the moon, a frequent quoter of the Dhammapada, an insatiable and acrobatic lover, and I imagine her driving the dark streets seeking me. Polly in a Prius. My future muse, near but out of reach. We'll reclaim the arts district. She'll piggyback to the open mike, her fuck-me shoes clicking in her hand. We'll spend a year politicizing every sexual encounter. Consensual assaults in perpetuity. And she'll say I'm a white man. And she'll say I think this is my privilege. And she'll say she's into leather and she finds my sex offensive and she'll hold my head against the wall. And at the end, if there's an end, I imagine our naked bodies wrapped in a stained comforter, all of the desire spent. I imagine our minds sober and clear, wondering how we could have ever been so kinked out, so on fire for something, and yet so fucking unable to remember a single orgasm or whether or not we transcended. I'll vacuum the apartment. Polly will take her Warhol prints, pack up the Prius, and go anywhere, anywhere not here. Seattle. Maybe Portland. A few weeks will pass, and I'll find a note in whatever book I'd been reading before she left. It'll say: I loved you to the max. I loved you to the max. I loved you to the max.

— The End —