At last, it’s a Friday, back home from work,
Showered and pampered, she chooses a dress,
Her blind date is handsome, slightly old-fashioned,
With Goth Chic, it’s certain she’ll bed him tonight.
Her libido rages, a fire devours her core;
She knows once he has her, he’ll beg a repeat.
Wanton, uninhibited, everything’s on the table,
She craves what’s taboo, praying he will, too.
In black lace and stockings, a fleeting feast,
Dark panda-eyed, mascaraed false lashes galore.
To tease him further, she wears false Dracula fangs,
Lace gloves, lace veil, and dark sable shawl.
Been several weeks since she’s laid with a man,
There’s some anticipation, there’s also a plan.
Her long skirt is voluminous, black with red trim,
A long split enables teasing with sensual thighs.
They dine and then dance, the tension is hot,
She presses closer, sensing his need.
He pants, kisses her lips, she smiles coyly,
Back to her flat — Tower Hamlets nearby.
They are burning to rut, that much is clear,
It’s heavy and hot; eventually they’re spent,
He spoons from behind, she’s wanting more,
He pants in her ear, “many years since last I was here,
I
Is this still called Whitechapel? Do they still call me Jack?”
—A dark knife hums from a sheath—
