Blame The Dress

Stairs of Lustful Reckoning

My first experience with love
was behind the closed doors of
my former best friend’s
girlfriend’s
mother’s house.

Shot glasses, fluorescent
and empty, littered
the antique coffee table
with sweat
from their former contents.

From that day forward,
Bacardi 151 would
always taste
like poison.

A stereo sat on the stone
fireplace, facing us like a director
in a director’s chair, and gave us
a reason to stand.

We danced just long enough
to thrust
our sexual fire
into fifth-gear.

The cinnamon candy
she so seductively sucked on,
found its way to my mouth
and back to hers.

It tasted like
lust, like
sex, like
betrayal. 

Luckily, as her breasts bounced
in and out of her New Years Eve dress -
a dress designed to fold me up and
forget - the last of the three
was the last on my mind.

I couldn’t have descended
any faster
down
those stairs of lustful reckoning.