Shawn Hatfield
Summer
Wendy wasn’t perfect and I didn’t want her to be.
I wasn’t perfect and I certainly didn’t strive to be.
I was sitting on the toilet
trying to think of something nice to write about her.
She was brushing her hair and doing her make up
next to me.
It always turned to sex.
Wendy and I
only turned each other on.
There was no emotional element.
I was completely astonished
by the way she moved.
She had large hips that swayed her ass back forth,
as she strutted her way across the floor.
I’ve never had someone grab
my crotch so confidently, and firmly,
as the way she did.
I gave her the best head and orgasms
she’d ever had.
In order to give an orgasm to a woman,
you have to fully understand a woman’s body.
Not just her pussy.
A woman’s mind is the most beautifully disgusting thing
I have ever experienced, and you must
treat it as so.
I ate Wendy’s pussy until she couldn’t stand it anymore.
She’d pull my head away after she came
9-10 times, catch her breath and say
“fuck me.”
Those words got my dick harder than a diamond.
We’d fuck for hours until I came inside of her,
causing her 30th and final orgasm.
Her tiny little pussy lips would
latch on and wipe her cum on my cock
as I slid out.
We did this 2-3 times a day,
everyday.
We stopped seeing each other eventually.
She told me that she didn’t
want me to come to her 30th birthday party.
I got drunk and decided to show up anyways.
When I walked in, Wendy and her family
sat at the dining room with
blank, dead, and confused looks on their faces.
Parents, siblings, friends,
and I man I’ve never seen.
He turned to her and said,
“Sarah, is this one of your coworkers?”
Who the fuck is Sarah? I was wondering.
Wendy stood up, holding his hand.
I noticed a ring on both of their
dry, crusty fingers.
“Yes,” she said, “he’s just picking something up.”
I panicked.
Turned around, opened, and shut
the large mahogany front door behind me.
I wasn’t sorry that I had lost something good,
but I felt bad for the
poor, clueless bastard.
I laughed a little bit as I stumbled my
drunk-ass home.
Mumbling out loud to myself,
“I didn’t even know her name.
I’ve been fucking another man’s wife for months,
and she’d been going by a fake name.”
She always came to my place.
When I woke up the next day
I had several messages from Wendy.
I listened to them.
She said she told her husband everything,
he kicked her out, and she was living with her sister.
I didn’t call her back, instead
I showed up at their house.
Her husband opened the door, swung,
and broke my nose all in one motion.
He drove me to the hospital.
On the way there he said, “The name’s Dan.”
“Tom. I’m sorry man, I didn’t know.”
“Yeah I know. Me either.”
After the docs realigned my nose
Dan took us to the bar.
He bought several rounds, wouldn’t let me pay,
and drove me home.
We stopped in front of my apartment complex.
“Get the fuck out of my car before I kill you,”
he said.
I nodded, got out, and Dan peeled away.
I stood outside for a moment, lit a cigarette,
and smiled a big cheese.
I finished it, turned around and started walking to the elevator.
Out of order.
I had 10 flights of stairs ahead of me.
By the time I was at the top,
I was sweaty, uncomfortable, and ready for bed.
Turned the corner and when I saw the apartment door,
Wendy was there waiting.
“Hi, my name is Sarah. Can we start over?”
I unlocked the door,
let her in, and locked it behind us.
When will I learn?
Shawn Hatfield’s poems have appeared in Culture Cult and Blognostics. He runs an indie record label and studio called Groove: Music Lessons + Recording, in Leesburg, Virginia. Shawn grew up in Northern Virginia and now lives in Hamilton.
This poem is not previously published.