Night at the Quays

A movie-themed bar,
obscure films on TVs and framed semifamous posters.
We swallow shot after shot of sticky liquid
tequila blurring the neon lights,
and our image of each other.
With her dark hair and fake eyelashes,
She becomes Liza Minelli in Caberet,
and I start to wonder
who I am becoming to her.
My leap of faith-
“Am I coming to yours?”

She uses her fingers, stroking clumsily
The taxi window lowers
as we speed away from the city,
warm summer air billowing,
invading the cab.
She leans out, risks decapitation-by-oncoming-car,
vomits liquid, trailing behind us
then ups the window like it's nothing.

She has guinea pigs
They squeak nervously
When I walk into the room
She lifts the lid of their tiny home,
Placed in the corner of her own compact apartment
The lights on the Quays, through the full-length windows
Burning like a northern English Vegas.
Her pets feed eagerly, like I plan to.
I'm gagging for her juice-
She makes me a berry cordial
I swallow it all.

We stumble into her bedroom
And watch each other undress in silence.
We kiss on the bed,
she smothers me with cleavage, rides me,
it's been so long that it hurts.
Tiny white marks on her stomach
visible in the room's halflight
faint signs of her past
A baby?

There's further temptation when she's on her knees,
screaming, gripping the headboard
I see myself thrusting
in the bedside mirror,
her head lolled down,
hair matted to her face
she can't see me
but she'll feel one hand
leave her hip
I flex my bicep,
smiling proud at my reflection,
Patrick Bateman-style.
I'm doing so much
that I've been meaning to do for so long.
I've had a drought,
But now she's soaking me.
I'm working through a mental to-do list,
Ticking off intentions
Missionary
Titfuck
Oral, given and received
I feel empowered, arrogant,
ordering her around the bed,
I deserve this.
When I finger her,
She screams the same pitch
as her guinea pigs squeek.

I'm a fleshy roman candle
The sparks go on and on
But there's no bang on my behalf.
Dull pain in the small of my back
tells me to stop thrusting,
woozy from boozy lusting
I fall face-down into her pillows,
breathing in a nasal cocktail
of cigarette smoke, booze, lipstick, perfume, fabric softner
and woman.

The next morning she sits me on her couch
with the Sky remote while she dresses.
A music channel blares.
Keri Hilson's “I like” fuses forever with my memory of last night.
She asks to swap numbers, fine by me
Her next railing experience is the tram to work.
I walk her there;
She tells me she was a size 24 once,
and slimmed to a 14.
Flashback: I'm ontop of her, fascinated by her reactions
The harder I slam, the more she screams.
I remember the marks.
she gets on, sits, the tram leaves me, alone.
She doesn't reply to texts
I never see her again.