In a college town, where the students are spoiled,
where the rich patrons wander in and out,
I found my solace ...
living in the fingers of a hot blonde cellist dyke
working at the local coffee shop.
I order my coffee with cream in a ceramic cup.
Sitting in the corner, pretending to check my email,
stealing glances at the girl on bar,
devising new uses for the honey on the condiment tray,
soaking myself as I imagine the barista topping me off.
I order a refill ... in a to-go cup.
I watch you leave, follow you home.
You hang your keys by the door, wander into your room,
and present yourself to a woman waiting naked beneath your mocha sheets.
She watches you undress, sucks the dirt from your fingertips.
Looking up at you she moves her fingers back and forth,
first into your c**t and then sinking them greedily back into her own.
Your head tips back as her mouth covers your espresso-bean c**t.
Through the open window I watch your n*****s perk,
hear you moan.
You start to say something about a shower but then trail ...
I stifle my own cries as I voyeur outside your window sill.
The travel cup is holding it’s own waiting at my heel,
my right hand is brewing a mounting storm.
I time my peak to match your satisfied scream,
collapsing in ecstasy against your outer bedroom wall.
I leave the coffee cup.
You call me in the morning,
sending shivers up my spine as you slyly ask,
“What, no tip?”