A poem for Proxy Paige.

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beneath a muted dutch overcast,
the blackout curtains over the studio window are drawn.
she leans on her side, naked,
flanked by messy cream sheets,
her hard brown eyes fixed toward the maze of streets.
he could ask her anything.
he wanted to know how she wanted to get fucked.

it is very quiet in the large flat.
she runs her tongue across her swollen bottom lip
to play with her piercings.
the taste of metal tingles.
sitting up, stretching, she slips in to thongs;
her prints to the bathtub trace marks through soot and cum
that mar the cheap white linoleum floor.

i wish i could have convinced her to stay,
if only for the free cam site payday.
no one wants to see me fucking around with the angle
like some homo danny d fuckin’ wannabe cinephile,
as i stop and start fucking this bitch on the screen:
choking down a list of critiques,
i branded her with a sharpie across her cheeks.
that will show those pay members who’s who.
the instagram likes were disarmingly few.

the kettle whistles:
draped in but a blanket she pours some tea
and nestles onto the couch with her laptop in gear.
“you’re too pretty” retweeted the guest.
instantly blocked.
how dare he assume she was better then all the rest?

you knew it would be a short day,
so you told me to wait til two.
that’s when i could come and see you again,
and fuck that fatty daddy gave you.

you had four hours to yourself,
in the grey of the amsterdam noon
with the windows wide open
and the sound of rain numbing
to do what you wanted to do.

//jf 5.9.2020

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