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Bus To Seks Street

A stench fills the city bus as it roars with voices.
I hide away in the silence of my newspaper
to read of a girl raped two days before
by a respected lawyer people now seem to pity.
He hasn't even been arrested.
My stomach rumbles, sick for the girl.

I look up from my newspaper
and my eyes run over faces near me
and settle on the guy across the aisle
with the sexy grin now tossed at me.
His scraggly black hair, neck length,
and day-old beard excite my juices.
I return his hot-heavy smile
as the possibility of a quickie
enters my mind as
not-out-of-the-question

while I curse the victim-girl being labeled a whore
and the reporter who believes the ex-boyfriend
when he says she likes it rough,
but, hell, who wouldn't
with a right-hook like his?

Hello, he says.
Hard fingers, wet spaces
Bridge our needs as one.
His eyes scream Ya wanna
as I hear sweaty moans
in a pounding rhythm.
from the back of the bus,
a hiked up skirt, unzipped jeans.
Their drops of lust soak me.
Yes or no doesn't even matter.
Does it ever?
I try not to look at them.
I squirm in my seat,
But no is my response.

The bus lurches to a halt,
doors squeal open
and concrete-eager shoes
replace loud voices
as I think maybe I wanna
and glance at him once more
as the girl with the hiked-up skirt
who reaks of sex whispers to him,
I like it rough. Make it hurt, baby.

Whore, I mutter and tuck my paper
under my arm, step off the bus,
and begin to think maybe
that girl in the paper did want it.



Meet the Parents

Rejected outfits flung aside,
to my disgusted,
self-depricating rants of too fat,
too tight, too slutty,
and blue-faced attempts
to fasten dryer-shrunk pants.
Is it pink or yellow that brings out my eyes?
They'll hate me, I tell him.

They'll adore you, my love. Pink.

The doorbell chimes, he lets them in,
welcomes them to our home.
No going back now.
My coward-stomach somersaults
in my throat. He calls for me.
Time to shut the closet door
and scurry to his side,
raise my eyes, smile as he says,

Mom, Dad, this is John.