Alone at the bar

I’d do her. And her. Not her. But maybe her. She’d get it. She definitely would. And her. I’d do things to her you couldn’t even imagine.

Her I’d maybe dance with. Her I’d snog, but only if I got desperate. She, she’d be grateful. She’d be hard work. Her I’d shag, but only in an alley. That one I’d go to bed with, but leave behind as soon as she fell asleep. That one I’d kick out of bed in the morning. Her I might bother to have a chat with. Her I’d have to tape her mouth shut.

That one I’d be all lovey-dovey to then when she asked for my number give her my mate’s. Her I might snuggle, but only to get somewhere. Her I’d maybe hold her hand, but that one I wouldn’t even touch with a barge pole.

Her I’d probably end up hitting and that one would probably turn me bitter.

Which leaves her, and I can’t do any of that to her, at least not in that way, ’cause I love her.

18 thoughts on “At the Bar

      • oh, i’m sorry, i wasn’t clear enough. what i mean is this: it’s not easy to lay it bare like this, the way one sex objectifies the other (men objectifying women, women objectifying men) — you always run the risk of being misunderstood, or hearing people’s sanctimonious admonishments and so on. It’s refreshing to read something written in such a concise and minimal way that captures that, gives a sense of what it sounds like, feels like.

      • Thanks. I was thinking a lot of people weren’t going to like this, especially with the ending, but I suppose these are my other voices. No one should really get upset

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