Gentlemen Prefer..

Blush carefully applied to a sunken cheek
Eyes lined with black coal
Adds age to a willowed face
18, brush, 20, stroke, 25..
(You would never guess how old she really is)
But the night is all about false pretences,
A night alone is never intended
Say what must be said, charm the men at the door.
Liquid smooth hips and thighs
Move to hypnotise.
She will get what she needs.

Low cut fur coat and faux pearls pretend status and taste,
As silky soft skin on display begs to contradict.
A Gentleman’s club, for the older – more refined.
But men have red blood, and age is no barrier here.
Temperature is high
Tired eyes spread like fire over waif like limbs
Begging to believe her whispers,
“I’m however old you need me to be.”
With one hand running through salt and pepper hair,
And the other on the small of a back
The pretence is put into action,
And its time to leave.

Names, Age, Marital status,
None of that matters in this business
Just count the steps to the bedroom

No need for sheets
To keep lovers entwined in a passionate embrace
Just Hot hot heat, twisted limbs
There is no modesty here.
Resist the urge to scream</i>
As she takes control

Press
Just a little,
                    
                   higher</u>

She’s almost there now
He can feel his body pulsing
And he couldn’t pull away
Even if he wanted to.
A lover his age is not even a thought
dormant in his mind.

Firm grip, Don’t slip
Count the minutes until you
come..

              back down to earth</i>


She wont kiss and tell
When he goes back home to his better half
Worry lines causing more wrinkles on a face
He’s seen under him for the last 20 years.

In the morning he wakes alone in a cheap motel.
There is no warm scent of coffee brewing in the kitchen,
No loving wife to welcome you into the day
Not even a shadow of the lover that made his night.
Just the sticky, lingering stench of what he couldn’t resist

She picks up the bills from the Formica bedside table
As bare, swollen feet slip into last nights stiletto’s
The makeup worn off from the night before gives a fleeting glimpse
As to the real age of the “woman” of the night.
Sad, childlike eyes reflect a little girl lost,
As she casts a backwards glance at the figure sleeping
Next to the hollow on her side of the bed

She whispers, with words wisened by knowledge, not age
And a shadow of a smile


“This is why ill never believe in love.”