That Damn Cake

I pierce you with my hook through a charade of coy innocent looks.

Puppy dog eyes and a dash of independence used when good.

Eight years and a week is all it took.

Was it the cake?

Was it the Aspall?

Both were good.

Eight years and a week was all it took.

Some kind of caramel top with a chocolate base.

Sumptuous and sweet just like the game I played.

Then the drink,

just one.

Now four.

The lack of food makes me tipsy and I think you know this,

so you offer me more.

What a bake off!

And then my phone number.

And that chest.

I do love the chest.

I don’t understand you.

You think you understand me.

You think you know me.

You know nothing.

Confessions are weak and hard to take.

I ignore the urge when you poise your finger.

I forget.

It doesn’t really matter.

I hope you’re clean.

What’s really going on?

It definitely started with that cake.

Everything is just fine, it’s easy in fact.

I’m enjoying myself.

I want it.

I need it.

Forget it.

I’m good at what I do.

In fact I’m better than you.

You try your luck with my friends.

Big mistake, I just fucked your mate.

You do it again and fail.

I get another.

Stop trying.

I can laugh in your face.

You try to call me out.

I do not cave.

I’m innocent I say.

This pussy is too good to walk away.

Then there is your finger again and the table slides sharply across the floor.

It’s good.

It’s very good.

I want it.

Do it again.

Then you try to talk to me and I’m bored.

So back to the drink again and you buy me some more.

And it’s fun.

You’re fun.

What am I doing?

I should stick to this one.

Then we’re alone and you touch my breast and a rush of feelings start to creep.

Shit.

I’m cold and step away.

This only makes you want it more.

That damn cake.

That damn sumptuous taste.

Are you clean?

What’s she like?

What do you think of me?

Do you respect me?

Do you want me?

And then.

I climb.

I know I don’t want you.

But I want you to want me more than anything you’ve ever known.

I want full control.

And then I drink and it’s nice.

We have pizza and bless the kitchen sink.

And it’s good.

It’s fun.

Then back to work and God this headache.

And there you are again with your chopped bananas and your funny accent.

Fuck it.

Do it again.

That damn cake.

That damn good cake.

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