I don’t really have an introduction for this poem, other than the fact that it’s not my usual, optimistic self. My apologies, in advance, for the language used.

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Wednesday Night

 

“You’ll love your first time,”

she said,

a knowing wink,

a lustful grin.

“I did.”

 

Shanelle,

breasts and ass bursting forth,

cantaloupes in sausage casing,

her sexuality oozing from her,

transparent and beckoning,

like the crimson gloss on her lips.

 

Fifteen and experienced, she was

my proponent.

“You’ll like it.”

 

The knock on the door

startled me, but the infant I was

entrusted to care for

slept peacefully.

 

He was tall, heavy, shaggy.

He smiled and said hello,

revealing crooked teeth and

a southern accent hidden in pubescent bravado.

 

“Hey, Shanelle sent me.”

His name was Jimmy.

Or John. Or Jason.

It started with a J, I think,

but names blur.

 

“So, did you, uh, wanna?”

 

I gestured to the playpen,

the smell of a ripe diaper I hoped to

avoid.

I was a shitty babysitter.

 

“We can be quiet.”

 

Kissing,

like a wet mop dragged

inexperienced over a pristine floor,

dirtying it with each stroke.

 

Was it supposed to feel good?

I didn’t know.

 

Covered in the slobber,

I suggested we stop.

The baby, and all . . .

I was a shitty babysitter.

 

Jimmy or John or Jason had gone

deaf or dumb

or perhaps determined,

because his zipper traveled south,

my hand unwillingly along with it.

 

“Just touch it.”

 

Hard, short, the tip wet

against trembling hand.

 

“You ready for this?”

 

No. No, I wasn’t.

 

Fifteen no longer felt grown up.

Perhaps Shanelle had it wrong?

Breasts and ass and libidinous hips,

maybe it wasn’t time after all.

 

But Jimmy or John or Jason

wasn’t going to let

an opportunity pass.

 

Did I say no?

I thought I did.

Did I push against him?

I thought I did.

 

Maybe it wasn’t enough.

Maybe Jimmy or John or Jason thought

I just really wanted it.

 

Maybe I did?

I don’t know.

 

The baby cried,

woken from the 35 seconds of grunts?

Or perhaps to join in a duet

with my own silent remorse.

 

Jimmy or John or Jason,

pulled his pants on,

wiped hands on his dirty Metallica shirt,

and asked if he could call me.

 

I nodded, looking for my panties,

the ones my mom still bought in a six pack

from Walmart.

These were special,

a pack of seven.

 

These panties that weren’t supposed to see

what I had done.

 

There they were,

in a corner of orange light,

crumpled in a heap.

 

Wednesday’s pair.

“Wednesday’s child is full of woe,”

as my mother always said.

 

Perhaps they were the right panties for the occasion.

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~ Victoria Elizabeth