Doesn't mean I love you

by Lillian Ann Slugocki

 Just because I fuck you, doesn't mean I love you.

It just means I walk home alone at two in the morning;  past crowded restaurants and nightclubs, my dress shifting in the wind, my high heeled sandals clicking on the pavement.  You might say, “Why you leaving baby, we're just getting started.” I beg to differ.  We're not starting anything that can't be finished with a blow job or my tongue.

You might say , Come on baby, it's late, after midnight.”  I'm a big girl.  And it's a surreal night, summer squeezing the last drops of warmth out of the sky and myself, a wraith, my lips swollen.  I'm practically naked; coral sundress,  very damp panties, black with lace insets.   I know I still smell like pussy.    

I date men who want what?  Can you tell me? Do you want a warm wet cunt?  Intelligence?  Humor?  I do the best I can, but I'm still married.  I'm still in love with my husband.   But I can't just sit around wondering who he's fucking.  I can't do that.  That is not acceptable.  That leads to very messy and undignified  bouts of insanity.  So, I ride this horse, so I take this path.  So I fuck you instead.  

And walk home by myself at two or three in the in the morning, sure I have done my job of being single and available.  Except that I am not.  I am not available. 


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