Swipe Right

Tequila and porn and texting girls—and 

I don’t get why they text back.

I have nothing, I can offer nothing, I own nothing—maybe 

I’m easy, too. Maybe for us kind of people, we’re easy. 

Wanna get fucked? Here I am. I’ll fuck you and 

leave you alone. We’ll only text each other 

in the middle of the night on a weekend. 

We’re both drunk. Texts go out:  

-Put your ass in my face! 

-I would but it’s too late. If I grab the next train, 

I’ll get out there too late. Eh. Secretly, 

I want to go to bed, but 

if someone will suck my dick and I can stay home...

maybe I’ll stay awake.  -Uhg. I want your dick! 

-Then come get it! 

-It’s too late! 

Then why are you texting me? 

Because I wish we were in love—
were working towards something golden. 

Thinking of your face doesn’t do it—

unless I’m also thinking of my dick in your mouth, 

or slapping it across your cheeks, or resting it on the tip of your tongue and chin. 

An hour of fucking is all the time I’d spare

for you. The conversation is, I don’t know. It’s forced. It’s all a lead up—

buuuut, just getting to the fucking—we'd be sluts. We’re classy people. 

Right. I think a lot, you think a lot, we solve problems at our place of work, 

we come home and have opinions on things that come up. There we go.

Some time goes by.  

-Send me a pic of your tits, ok? 

I’ve got a rock hard stiffy going on and I need something to knock the crazy out of me. 

I’m a poor boy. I live in a garage that barely fits my body, and oh, 

don’t you know it suffocates my soul. 

Everything about you is where you live 

and everything about where I live is cramped and dirty and dark—

underneath an alcoholic and a dying mother. 

I’m not allowed upstairs where the washer and dryer are. I have to live 

in their shadow or walk the high strung streets.

I Snap my cock and blast it your way.

No response. No titties.

In the glow of the red light from my tiny, 

little lamp, Chet Baker sings to me. But I've gotten nowhere. So I do it myself.