The Escort

Lithe, sinewy, she moves

Across the bed, barely making a dent in the sheets.

Her naked body is exposed,

Her breasts hang, limp cuts of meat.

A galaxy of freckles,

Moles,

Birthmarks,

Cancer,

Decorate her shoulders.

 

There is no life in her eyes,

Eyes which once held the younger men in a trance.

Her lips part, chapped and sore,

Her breath is heavy with coffee, cigarettes,

And semen.

 

“I want you,” she says.

For a fleeting moment,

Almost too quick to catch,

Her eyes are on your pants,

Draped across the nightstand.

 

Then she takes you into her mouth,

Dry, rough,

Canines catching, pulling.

 

There is no pleasure in this for her,

Or for you.

It is compulsion.

It is need.

It is too late,

and you cum.

 

She is clumsy, all bones,

Knobby knees,

As she dresses.

Slides a stained black dress over her ribcage,

Her protruding hips.

Sharp angles and freckles,

and she had you.

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