i fucked him; he did not fuck me

he was vapid.
everyone knew he was a cheap lay with a big dick.
everyone knew i wanted to fuck everyone. he and i,
both resident whores [both poets].

a week before we fucked, at a party
he told me he wrote a poem about me—
’that’s my pick-up line,’ i wanted to say.
well, i knew what he was up to, but
it worked on me, too, anyway.

a week later, i saw him at another party.
i’d had an entire bottle of whiskey for myself only,
i was fucking wasted. i became very too-blunt:
“so,” i said, “when do i get to read that poem?”

his face was blank: “wait.. what poem?”

i knew right then he’d made it all up
and forgotten his lie.
so, i took him home with me
right then.

when we fucked, i came,
and then i got off of him and
said i was leaving to get food.
“what about me?” he says. [he hadn’t cum yet]

i smiled inside.
i said,
“what about you? you want me to get you something to eat?”


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