My way

Coming to your house. Parking there for the first time. Unsure. Checking the regulations. Nervy. Don’t know what to expect.

Keep on ringing to check restrictions. You’re more on edge than me. Faltering voices.

Avoidant eyes. Sitting on opposite sides of a massive room. You’re respecting my boundaries. So ethical.

I need a bit of disrespect right now. All this PC is pissing me right off. I said I didnt want sex. Well guess what? I changed my mind and you should be able to read that.

Avoidant eyes. Sitting on opposite sides.

Your food is tasteless, your curls lovable, framing your face cherubim.

I insist on sleeping over in your bed. You lie there rigid like a toy soldier. I want to turn you on. Find those places.

Now I’m scared. Coz you’re so rigid.

Our carefully crafted discourses fall to the wayside as I try to make you want me. Adventures into Descartes, tantra, Bach, Miles Davis trivialise the need to feel you wanting me.

You’re determined to make me stick to my word of Platonism and right now I hate you for it.



So we met.

So we didn’t meet.

Actually we sat in a car. Looking.

Mmmmm not really.

I pressed his bones, his slim physique, his pubescent skin. He said my skin was like butter. He couldn’t stop telling me how beautiful I am. I wasn’t interested. I was in awe of his brooding eyes. His alien trajectory, his jumble of accents, Lebanese poetry, fast, hard, hot sex. He pulled my hair hard, I melted in his grasp, like butter.

The mixed race, the brown, the more anti whiteness than the black, the melting of the imperialist canon into pan African, wokeness.

He asked for McDonald’s, I asked for certainty…