Supermarket

18:14
In the City
In a starched blouse
No bra,
Skin tight jeans in indigo
Sauntering through Waitrose in
Six inch stilettos
Avoiding all eye contact
Ticking things off my list
And
Bending over frequently.

I am conjuring up a revolution
Half way between “Organic” and the Delicatessen.

I could smell you before I saw you:
Tom Ford Oud Wood
And cigar smoke:
Old school.

You lean over me and your hand lingers in front of the Decaf
Then
Moves swiftly upwards to the Arabica beans
Causing your shirt cuff to fall back and reveal a
Jaeger LeCoultre Reverso
Fastened around a
Particularly
Hairy wrist.

I already know I can’t resist you
As I turn and
Stare
Intensely into
Nervous grey eyes that
Flick
Intermittently
Between my face and my breasts and
You’re starting to sweat.

Beads of sweat
Sprout from your forehead like
Watercress
You wipe it of hastily and I
Observe a
Fresh
Patch under your arm.

It’s peculiar really,
There is something
Inexplicably appealing about how
Intensely
Boring
You are.

You have a life I could
Predict
From your 6:30am
Double espresso
To your
10pm nightcap whilst watching the news

I bet
You like your curry mild
Your wine French
Your holidays to the Almalfi
And the same man has been
Cutting your hair for
Sixteen and a half years.
You want a dog,
A girlfriend,
And to restore a classic car,
But
Don’t have the time
As you
Work too hard.

You are West London.
Chinos, leather soles, Hermes cufflinks, platinum watch, razorcut, silver hair that’s balding up top, and a Ferragamo belt
Straining slightly
Below three or four years of excessive Scotts and Nobu.

I go first

“I’m Billie…”
(And I am a slave to lust.

And I would let you fuck me right here
And I’d beg you for it but
You look like the type with a
Perfectly respectable
Reputation to keep.)

You reach for your card
But
I stop you and hand you mine.

“…your future ex wife.”

You laugh and
Your dentist is good
Veneers
A couple crowns round back
Three little spots of blood
On your shirt where
You’ve cut yourself shaving
And
I think you’re the type to
Call me Princess
And
Stroke my hair and
Alas-
I’m a
Glutton for punishment.

You take the card,
And in the process
Drop the coffee.
Retrieving it you
Can’t
Avoid the smell
Emanating from me.
Like an animal;
I am heaving with
Arousal.

Bitch
On
Heat.

*****

Desperately trying to leave
This honey trap
Before another one of these
All knowing
Grey haired devils
Tries to tempt me.

They are everywhere
A collective Medusa
Just when
You’ve
Finished one off in your head,
Five others appear;
Brown leather briefcases, TAG Heuers, Tie pins, Fitbits, Square rimmed glasses, Pinstripes, Liberty print, Bentley keyrings, Smythson wallets, iPhones, Polo Ralph Lauren, GANT, Trollies full of expensive wine and cote de beuf, they buy smoked salmon, Montrachet, asparagus, mustard. Some are balding, some are grey,
Some are looking discretely but
Most aren’t.

Deep pockets
Can’t hide
Shallow desires.

Christ, I love the coffee aisle in Waitrose,

But I don’t care much for coffee.

I’m ticking off
Krug
And
Dark chocolate
And
Strawberries
From my list
Thinking about Mr Jaeger LeCoultre
And contemplating
The exotic
Erotic
Appeal
Of middle aged
Bored
Men
And
I’ve long since
Soaked through my thong so
It’s a taxi home
Until the next time
I
Find an excuse to be
Stranded in
Waitrose
In the City
At 18:14.

-BF