So now I’m hiding in the stall of this horny, piss-reeking bar. Because I ran out of skin to keep the hurt under.
But a tearful-fist is pushing up my throat,
a betrayal of burn behind my eyes.
I don’t think I'll make it home to fall apart.
I'm afraid to leave this bathroom,
and have it pour out everywhere.
Next thing I know, my hand’s up my dress.
Whatever. Ineedthe orgasm. Desperately.
A release to numb the mayhem of the mind,
shutting everything off.
My body’s trained for this.
My fingers know the drill.
Touch. Rub. Come. Forget.
Only I don’t forget. I feeleverything.
I close my eyes, circle my throbbing clit
like if I caress nicely, it’ll shut up.
But the ache doesn’t fade. It pulses harder?—
louder—
mocking me.
My body’s screaming for some Jersey boy to sing in my ear.
For Jersey boy hands.
Jersey boy breath.
Jersey boy lies.
The only way I reach climax is by pretending it’s him.
And when the orgasm hits,
it comes soft and leaves fast?—
my body buzzing, releasing,
and leaving nothing behind.
Even my nerves faked it just to be done with it.
That high I’m chasing? Nowhere.
