Never Fuck a Writer
from the socialite’s townhouse
to the ditzy girl’s bed
to the unspoken tension
to the well-spoken passion
west thirty-fourth forsyth saint marks east third
another night up till 4 am
“i have one rule,” she said, “and it’s to never fuck a writer.”
she laid naked on my chest and i asked her who made her create this rule.
“this writer boy who was a manipulative sociopath and i found out he was in a sex cult.”
i suggested she not fuck men who are in sex cults, but writers are might be okay, and she said:
“yes, i know, i want to fuck you, but i like the way it sounds: never fuck a writer, start to finish, it’s a bad idea.”
my red flag is: writer her red flag:
slashes on her stomach, self inflicted cuts i gently kiss around,
she has voodoo dolls and herself, she likes to feel pain, she’d like me to hold her neck harder,
i don’t have any rules of my own, not against a woman who would cut herself and would cut me, too, if given the chance
she is more than she will ever acknowledge, she knows how to tell a story, and would be a better writer than me if her pen ever hit paper.