Personal

I woke up in your pristine bachelor pad
full of grays & blacks & modern furniture & countertops.
Samurai swords on the wall. A pool table. 
A big mirror in front of your bed. Fancy flasks & frames. 
No dust or dirt to be found. No pets, no stains, 
no pictures on a sleek yet huge, metal fridge. 
Only your own noise, your own toys.
Let me rephrase that- I woke up because you woke me up
to fuck & it was just that, a fuck. I stopped you.
Put a hand to your groomed chest hair
& said "Slow down," & the moment 
& harpooning boner was gone.
You climbed off of me & started to assemble yourself.
Crisp shirt, no wrinkles of course, an important tie 
to tie you together, hair just like it was molded last night,
sculpted facial hair that annoys me slightly because of that,
& I'm laying there with wild hair, an opened package,
& I start to open my mouth to say:
"You fuck like...I don't know how else to say this...
but you fuck like...umm..."
"How do I fuck? I'd like to know.." with mild scoffing 
& defensive laughing you say this & button up your shirt sleeves.
"I mean don't get me wrong. Last night you did me good...
explicit explicit [insert ego boost] but you fuck like...
like you haven't been in a relationship in awhile."
"Why 'cause it's not sensual?"
"Yeah."
We discuss the past. You've been the booty call for years. 
The successful bachelor. I could always tell you were more interested & maybe that's why I ran 
& maybe that's why you chased. Too easy & difficult all the same. 
You seemed to have been attracting 
a string of these types of ladies in the past few years. 
You admit "Maybe I just put out that vibe. I don't know." 
Then I wonder about the own vibe I put out. 
So all over the place. A walking contradiction. 
I just want to be sensually fucked. 

.Laura Curren.