She pushed gently against me
and fell on the
bed
Stretched a leg towards me
began unbuttoning at her
jeans
I helped her take them
off
Not too gentle, not too rough
Grinning, she turned around
in bed and said, “I just
remembered, you never told me
what your muse looks like.”
“Huh?”
“And please don’t tell me
it looks like me. We both know
that’s bullshit sweet talk poets use
to get girls. Don’t
lie to me, boy. What does your
muse look like? You
can tell me.”
I reached for her foot
moved it out of the way
not too gently, not too rough
Reached for the panties
She pushed my hand away
not too gently, not too rough
“Tell me. Is it, by any chance, a little
girl locked inside a basement like
it was for my ex-boyfriend? Do you
whip her when she’s naughty
and doesn’t give you inspiration? Do
you deny her food and the
bathroom?”
“What?”
“Tell me, poet! Do you? Do you
lie on your back when you masturbate
and imagine the muse
squat above your face
and shower you with her piss
as blessing?”
I took a step back. “What?”
“Oh fuck,” she said. “Just tell
me already what your muse
looks like and how d’you get
intimate with her. Tell me!”
“I, I don’t know. I don’t work
like that.”
She stopped touching herself
Watched me expecting
to add more
I gave a shrug.
Honestly, the last time I thought of
a muse it was
some broke, homeless young guy,
scrawny as a putrid
plank and roaming the streets
He had nothing in this
world
but hunger
A hunger that possessed him
and made him write like a madman
That guy was my muse
But I figured
she wouldn’t care to hear about that
Anyway, we didn’t go out for long
after that evening
She said we’re not compatible
because I’m too vanilla
Unfortunately though
being a good boxer doesn’t
earn you a good job
in today’s society. Best he
could do was bouncer
at a local bar
His IQ wasn’t much help either
He beat up quite a number of
troublemakers
and earned a reputation
became a local celebrity
The women desired him
and got him
and life was good until the one
invincible opponent stepped
into the ring
Well, there are many invincible
opponents in a man’s life
but his was prostate cancer
All the women who wanted to
take pictures with him
and have his autograph on their
chests and wanted to take
him home meant nothing now
One of them was a rich
older lady who
gifted him a car after he served
her a few times in the bedroom
He used it to
drive at full speed into
a pole
And as it happens after someone
dies, the people had only
good words to say
about him
They thought he didn’t leave
much behind
but one of the girls he’d been
with knew better
She rubbed her swollen
belly as she
thought of him. It’ll be fine
as long as her husband wouldn’t
suspect anything
Daydreaming as a profession 