Poem: Booty Call at Midnight by Andrew Stergiou

Booty Call at Midnight by Andrew Stergiou

Couldn’t get there soon enough,

The girl patient, patient girl was ill,

her laid restless in anxieties,

her toys laid listless on the bookcase,

as bookends lodged somewhere,

between Wilde and Cummings,

after a day editing copy, typing and chat,

she was prepped for treatment,

doctor your patient is ready,

for her life was going fast,

no where but no where in the rat race,

she had no pretensions about what she wanted,

but hadn’t exactly expressed them, but why,

in pure lust and love,

warm day sweaty afternoons,

she waited for they met before,

without much to do, met in a quiet open space,

she sun bathed, burning tan lines,

to trace outlines of her breasts,

marked by protruding nipples, a liberated woman,

surrounded by oxymorons and paradoxes,

(ha ha they look it she said giggling)

for not much has changed in years but the desire,

as a hidden door in plain sight,

with a locked wrought iron gate,

calling from the corner telephone booth,

before cell phones were invented,

the phone rang, she had a loft bed, but leap,

high above the distractions, of dirty dishes,

walking bare footed on sanded varnished  wooden floors,

the phone rang once, twice, three times,

“hi”, “hello”, “what’s up?” Not much “I’m down stairs”,

“you busy?”, no come over,

in a detour off the main strip,

couples dressed for dinner, stripped naked,

each taking the others clothes off publicly,

what was eyed, in what was called decent,

as hidden in the tortured bondage, of the mind,

in silly bourgeois conventions,

of dinner, drinks, theatre, corner bars,

in deceased book stores, on the front stoops of many stairs,

lounging out doors in summer,

passing quickly past many small shops in winter,

kissing and hugging in greetings, just a girl,

tongues darted in the taste of a mixed drink,

perfume, cologne, of sweat and cum,

yes the smell of cum was noticeable,

mixing with the smells of turpentine,

linseed oils and artists paints,

applied in a heavy pastiche in converted industrial lofts,

clothes were removed ,

in the freedom of the naked bodies,

transversing as spirits from one world to the next,

in the plastic toys vibrating in crude motions,

of crème coloured flesh, made in china,

that now rested in a box,

between Shakespeare and Dickens,

there was no tyme wasted for it was late,

in a booty call,

before they called booty calls, booty calls,

before Texas sold vibrator as “personal massagers”,

before Texas called dildos “demonstration models”

before red bullets, spiked condoms,

in a rainbow of pastel colours,

the Doctor of Love made a house call,

before women became just as twisted as men,

writhing in passions masturbating,

in sync with poussez (pussy),  (pussy) pousser mon cher amour,

walking up the winding stars, of the narrow winding stairs,

knocking on the door, the door opens,

pousser (pussy) plus fort, aller plus vite,

the pussy cries with a fevered pitch,

in a high pitched shrilly voice,

enter,  just don’t stand there,

her eyes shyly spoke,

suck my tongue deep into your mouth,

squeeze me tight, feel my hands caress,

your naked arms and shoulders,

I followed your naked buttocks,

follow me up the winding stairs,

along the iron banister, spare me of my misery working days,

of endless classified ads, priced at five cents a word,

slaving as a copy editor, suffering nights I am home alone,

but why alone, because, because what,

because we loved, because we never in thought to ask,

because we just met, and met again,

because in what was never more,

because we never asked,

in what was perfect as it was,

for in nothing more but passion,

in solace for a working girl or woman,

the woman or girl we did not know,

in solace of a boy or man,

the doctors knows for today he writes,

the patient is well and satisfied,

in what we were for a moment,

as pure in heart and nothing more.

that we ponder unknowing,

impetuously never curious in the futility of the moment,

no time is wasted on romance,

no words are wasted in negotiations of betrothals,

rushing in a society without commitments,

in lens of the disposable love,

of disposable men and women sacrificed,

on the altar of finance and economy,

in industrial love, passion, compassion, and empathy,

in truth and sincerity a mechanical process,

in a booty call at midnight,

for if we meet we will not be sure it is who we think,

unless our noses meet, and mouths draw close enough to kiss,

in smelling the sweat and scents, of each other,

as we meet again in writing, of desire we share/d.

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