You pour my drink and as I listen to you talk about some kind of argument you got into at the office, all I can think about is crawling to you on command. I know it’s tough out there in this ridiculous world where money is power and cruelty is king. Trying to make it in a place you know you don’t belong and maybe never did, probably never will. But you get your foot inside of a door and then you stumble all the way in and though your stomach may turn at the thought of another day doing the same old shit you did the day before, you learn to flash that dazzling white smile of yours at the absurdity and laugh in the face of the man who holds all the keys to your eventual failure or success. The men own it all anyway so what do I care if at the end of a long hard day I just want to spread myself before you and feel the way I make you happy drip like sweet nectar all the way down the length of my subservient feminine thighs. I’m sick to death of trying to say the right thing, trying to be the right kind of woman which is to say I am not interested in killing off my own desires just to prove something to a world which clearly wants nothing to do with proving itself. Thank you for the drink, Sir. May I have another, please. I want the way you touch me like the only heaven you believe in is the scent of flesh and blood pulsing hot and slow against your talented mouth. Use me up good and when we’re done I’ll let you light my cigarette as I lean against the garden wall out in the stinging cold. My hair a mess and my needy little heart aglow.