Pubis Vulgaris

The stubble wasn't the worst part.
That I could deal with, especially since she probably wasn't
expecting anyone at the party to find it that night--
hadn't given old Deadeye here enough credit.
Hell, finding stubble down there's a bit of a compliment
to a man's prowess if you stop and think about it.

No, what killed me was the way she kept panting my name
at every other awkward bump of our newly acquainted hips.
At least twice during the shameful act I stopped to
ask her if everything was OK, if she had a question.
She covered my mouth with her hand and coaxed me
into picking up where I'd left off. It was bizarre.
I'd had my share of dead fish floating lazily in the sheets
before, but never an accusatory broken record.
The first option seemed like the better deal.
Hell, no one even called me by name anymore.
I'd been reduced to initials against my will.
What made her any different?

And if anyone else had been on top of her that night
she would've been saying his name instead.
Neither of us were special.
The sad part is we knew it and didn't care.

We were just a convenient combination
of alcohol and a vacant couch.
I hadn't seen the sex for the pointless search yet.
You can't fill your own void by filling someone else's...
or can you?

That's a rhetorical question.