His heartbeat is loud in my ears as I walk into a red tinged bathroom.
I can smell the last couple who used this place
for the very same thing we will.
A blast of cold radiates from where his thumb touches
my silk clad hip. The sound of the lock sliding home is a loud,
barely registered thunk.
Frigid tile cushions my back and I am consumed,
covered from head to toe by this man.
His tongue slides onto of mine, wet, thick, unsatisfying.
I grab his neck and pull him closer to me,
hoping his heat will counter the shivers rising up from me.
He mistakes this for longing as he places his smooth,
too thin fingers onto my waistband.
Shoves into me through panties, soaked, not for him.
These are my really pretty panties,
the ones I wore for someone else,
but shared with him.
He’s quick, and it takes me a moment to respond.
I place my hands on his belt, but I’m clumsy,
unable to think and do at the same time.
Pushing me away, he does what I am thinking too much to do.
Finally, the foreplay is over,
my pants have pooled around calves
I am holding on to the porcelain sink.
He’s inside me, muscles stretched after too long,
stinging. He slips out once, but soon finds a rhythm,
making me work at staying level.
It isn’t until he reprimands me that I realize I am grunting,
on automatic, with my mind still 10 feet away in the next room.
I want it harder
I need to feel that sting again and again.
But it is now over. And I’m pulled upright.
He leaves, and I relock the door,
stare at myself in the mirror.
Nothing is out of place, my makeup is fine.
I swipe a hand through my hair,
arrange the jacket I never took off,
and walk out.
He is standing there, watching over the door,
I have not really looked at him since I walked into the club,
I have no desire to do so now.
The craving is gone, the need fulfilled.
Now I wait to crash, for the shame to seep in,
to wrap myself around the guilt and disgust.
Embrace the only sensation that will break through
this numbness. To feel worthy of your rejection.



