This was not worth coming out in the rain.

You tell me about your work as an attorney, defending investment banks and hedge funds.

From whom?

The government.

Oh, right.

I want to break the lip of the wine glass between my teeth just to have something to do.

You soft man, with your voice too hard to hear in this hot bar, and your constant allusions to being too old to have fun:

Have you ever bitten into a rare steak and sucked the juice through your teeth until the meat is dry and tough in your mouth? No? Just me?

You recite your Netflix lineup while I consider the headlights passing outside, consider jumping in front of the headlights passing outside.

You would never commit a misdemeanor with me on a Tuesday, just because I asked, or even better, because you called me halfway through and invited me to join.

I know what fucking you would be like.
I have fucked dozens of men like you,
Who caress me possessively and
Make too many moaning noises and
Give up very quickly on making me come.

My pussy has been called magical by more than one man making excuses.

I’m not flattered by that anymore.
Your orgasm is not impressive or complementary.

I want someone who will sink into the cold ocean with me at Rockaway,
Who will watch my back for sharks and grab me by the ankles under the waves.

I want someone who will scream with me under a bridge until our heads ache from the echoing.

Not you, Attorney man, Midtown working man, Fort Greene apartment and whiskey cocktail man.

Not you.