Stick to your guns
She told me she lost 15 pounds in a month
Her doctor congratulated her
She felt brave and worthy enough to ask for sex again
Her husband complied
She wanted my approval, a head nod
Smiles and "how did you do its?" and
Aren't you lucky?
It is not virtuous
Self, meet loathing
Sex, meet restrained contempt
What happens next?
What happens next
I am compelled to ask
Without saying it in so many words
Do you wish my lips were on you?
She says I'll be stuck in middle management
Forever
Because I am too sloppy
Sloppy means fat and curly-headed and loud
With a tattoo
She says that men are linear
It's all about a woman's fuckability quotient
Am I fuckable?
It's the age old question
The tri-athlete next to us
He seems to take a real interest
Ask me questions like he was a woman
I like to talk, to answer
But the prudent thing is to ask him
Why?
Why do you, sir
Want to know about me?
I look him up and down
Decide he is fuckable
Wonder what he thinks of my potential
I've never been with a man
Not really, I say, to those who ask for details
Not like "going all the way"
I'm curious
But I would have to suspend
my own disbelief
my own disdain
I want to win the fuckability wars
I want to be desired
But instead, I stick to my guns
And wear obscene lipstick
A red's red
Fuckable?
She confesses her wish
Non-monogamy
And chicks
You've got the wrong woman I think
I don't give
I only take
I don't like girls like you
Give me macho or fey
My two extremes
I almost always leave unsatisfied
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