I’m sorry, it doesn’t usually happen,
I really thought I’d last,
– it’s often quite good, apparently,
when it doesn’t – happen – so fast.
You’re silent, (understandably).
Unsure what to say, you quietly offer “I’m flattered -”
I turn the other way.
“It’s normal”, you plead to me,
“there’s no need to be ashamed.
It happens to everyone”.
(When so impassioned and so inflamed).
‘Normal’ and like ‘everyone else’.
Forgettable – that’s how I seem.
An embarrassed joke to all your friends,
tomorrow, over tea.
I wanted you to remember it.
Me – how I changed your life –
you lying next to some impotent chump,
a loveless, sex-starved wife –
lying there unsatisfied,
you’d touch yourself aggressively.
I’d bring you back to guilty bliss.
In lonely nights the thought of me,
Would turn you on. You’d be ashamed
How what I did enflames you so –
Sweaty and convulting, you’d scream my name.
The fantasy, I know by now
of a narcissistic man – obsessed with being the fatal love
in a lifelong plan.
So maybe I should be ashamed,
but not for what I did, but rather what I meant to do.
What I meant to do to you.
That thought begins to sober me.
Then you say that cutting line.
“Well”, you say, “Usain Bolt
would be happy with that time”.