Ugly Sex
I just had sex with the ugliest woman in the
world.
I wish I could, if only for a few restful
moments,
transcend my shallowness and find
something, anything to excuse this.
Her hair has a half dozen different lengths and
colors
with unruly curls and tacky bangs.
One of her eyes drifts aimlessly as if
her tiny, weak, alcohol-addled brain
just can't make it behave.
She doesn't smile. Her cheeks
are too full and fat to be lifted
by her thin, sad lips.
Her shoulders are huge,
like her skin ran out of other places
to inflate. In school, we teased her
by poking her on the shoulder,
causing her to try to turn her head,
without success. Her nipples hide
almost under her breasts. (Then again,
I'd hide, too.) Her stomach puffs
grossly out, with sparse hairs varnished
flat by her copious sweat. Her ass is
a mass of gas-passing expanse
in stirrup pants,
pale, pocked, and clammy.
Her pussy is the color of cat shit
and smells of sulfur, exhaust,
and stewed tomatoes gone bad.
Her legs (finishing La Tour Tres Grande)
are taut with cellulite and stretch marks,
with little hope of carrying their load
for another twenty years.
Why did I fuck her?
Just another case of my mouth
writing checks my ass can't cash.
This one made payable to a friend
who confessed two years of celibacy.
"Damn, man! If I ever go two years
without getting any, I'll kill myself!"
Twenty one months ago (lucky 21!)
was my last visit to the Carnal Carnival
and I was running out
of time to make good my marker.
So, with desperation and a lingering
sexual sadness, I found her. I pounded
that pussy with equal parts anger and relief,
knowing it'd be another two years
before I did something that stupid again.