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Bastard
 
I gave you the best moments of my life in apartment 311.
And to think I bothered writing down your number 
 
on that torn slip of yellow legal paper
Copied from the toilet of Robert Strozier Library. 
 
Shove it into the pocket of my jeans like loose change.
To think I almost pulled a muscle for the emotions I invested in you.
 
You don't want me. I'm not your ideal guy. 
I'm no Prince Charming.
 
I'm nothing but a hard, black cock going in 
And out of your sand-toned ass. 
 
I thought I was the queerboy that struck that nerve, 
The nigger you were looking for in a page of gay personal ads.
 
You answered the door in a tee shirt that was long enough 
To hang over your penis softer than cotton candy. 
 
Walked into that living-room, ironing board sitting in the kitchen,
An unmade bed past the hallway. 
 
I could see the Shell station where you work 
From the window of your place. 
 
Gas pumps and streetlights looked like miniature toys.
"Make yourself comfortable," you said. 
 
Took off my corduroy coat, the one I wore for slumming.
Could feel my cock swelling like a micro waved sausage 
 
In my jeans. "Want something to drink?" you asked.
"No, I'm cool." You took your rightful place next to me, stark naked.
 
I unbuttoned my plaid shirt. Giving chest hairs some air. 
Peeled off the Levis from my legs like dead skin. 
 
My thighs were French doors opening to your mouth. 
Commercials from your television danced in my eyes
 
As you went in searching for oyster pearls of semen. 
I rubbed your head like a crystal ball. 
 
Then there was your butt: domed and pimpled.
Reach around and can feel a tinge of lubricated 
 
Jelly between those ivory cheeks. 
You sat upon me, roosted on my cock like a pigeon.
 
"Give me that black dick," you said.
"Gonna ride this big black cock." 
 
Spewed a milk truck of spunk in your rump. 
You rolled up off me like the rubber I was too lazy to grab for. 
 
Walked nude, red and sweating to that cardboard box of a kitchen. 
"I'll get you a rag for the mess," you said.
 
Sat exhausted at the foot of your sofa. Cock smudged 
With your feces. The rag was wet with water from your 
 
Kitchen sink. You had the decency to use a little soap. 
A week later I dropped by that gas mart. 
 
"Five dollars at pump 3," I said. You took my money 
With a nonchalant look on your face like you had never 
 
Seen me before, like you never gave me head last Saturday. 
I feel like a notch on your bedpost.
 
Tried calling you, but all I got was the answering machine.
Went by, knocked on the door of apartment 311, but no luck.
 
I knew you were home. Could see Sixteen Candles 
From the vertical blinds playing on your TV. 
 
I saw you moving around in there. Looking through the peephole. 
Treated me like I was the big bad wolf. 
 
I wanted to blow your house in. 
Torch the fucker; throw a brick through the window. 
 
Take spray paint to that door you hid so cowardly behind
Writing "bastard" in big, hot pink letters.
 
I wanted to tell you to your face that you were a real asshole, 
But I just went home, grabbed a permanent marker and permanently
 
Wiped you out of my 
Winnie the Pooh address book. 

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