I liked a woman once.
No, I’ve loved a few.
“It used to bother me,” I’d say, “that she has a beautiful husband.”
They needed me and I wanted them to.
But what the hell, they were lovely, they were young.
I was lovely, I was young.
I wanted them, I dreamed of them.
I needed them and they wanted me to.
In the warmth of the day they loved their beautiful husband; his money and his friends.
In the cool of the evening, when he was high and blown away; they loved me, the horse of me.
Only half drunk was I, and I’d bathed.
I was dangerous and they sought a thrill.
They knew me, they understood their ache.
They wanted me, they dreamed of me.
I knew them, I understood their need; and I unlocked my door.
They were sad and neglected; I’d give them their thrill.
“Let us have our fantasy,” they’d say, and it felt good to me.
They’d sneak away to be with me.
They smoked their pot, I drank my scotch.
We’d laugh, we’d talk, and we’d pet each other.
They were free for the moment and horny.
I was lonely forever and horny.
They’d undo their buttons, I’d undo my belt.
They’d wonder if they should, I’d convince them they could.
We fucked, I fell in love.
They cried from their guilt.
I wouldn’t ask about their tears, I knew the answer that would come.
I was patient, and I watched the ceiling.
In the warmth of a new day they loved their beautiful husband; his money and his friends.
In the cool of a new evening, when he was high and blown away; they stayed to smoke and sniff with him.
They’d had their thrill; they’d had their want of me.
I wept, I drank my scotch; and I left my door ajar.