She asked me on a movie date
that was anything but
fright constrained my veins.
I arrived early as though
I was running late for an interview.
After a flirtatious smile,
she motioned me through the door.
Clutching my hand,
she guided me to her bedroom.
The movie she’d wanted to see
was her on top of me, filming
for her website,
for her fans, of which I was one.
I crossed the centerline of my judgment
into the oncoming traffic of inhibition,
grinding tunnel vision to a halt.
We slammed shots of cheap rum;
stripped nude, shaking my head
at what I’d do for cheap thrills.
Nearly a year later,
as a newborn baby cries, she nudges
my arm, reminding me it’s my turn
to feed the baby.