Sex with my Ex
I may or may not have sex with my ex-boyfriend this weekend he's coming into town and I'm trying to tell myself I won't have sex with him because when we were together all those years ago the sex wasn't even good and we fought like inmates because he didn't like to shower on weekdays or put clean sheets on his bed and he played his guitar which was really my guitar that he stole and broke from wailing on the damn thing all day in his banana yellow boxer shorts with the familiar gravy-like stains because he decided it was more important to nail that riff in "Crazy Train" than it was to look for jobs or see what time the movie was playing or clean that sticky hair-splooge-gum-beast off his mattress before we had sex and even then I didn't want to have sex with him because his sandpaper Pinocchio penis rubbed rubbed rubbed because he plucked the skin on my frets like I was a two-minute pop song in a car commercial and I wondered why he couldn't play me like he played "Blackbird" so why all of a sudden after six years and two semi-dirty dreams and a slur of nights spent sucking on vodka tumblers contemplating Plato and biceps and guys who aren't called Skinny do I go back to that safe place I had with him that safe ugly place where sex rolls in my brain like a shriveled newborn in the dryer at the Laundromat that's been set to spin until I wonder if this is the best I can do ending up right back where I started
