Blindfolded, you wait.
Fingertips digging into the bedspread.
I cough, then wrap my fingers in your hair. My weight settles on your chest, then your face.
Eagerly, you open your mouth. Your tongue lashes my silken folds.
I verbally correct you.
That is not your purpose.
For now, I grind your inadequacy in your face.
You absorb the salt, the stickiness. You drink in the humiliation.
You are my water, my soap, my washcloth.
Things to be used and discarded.
