hush of heads spiralling to see
her draped in satin sliding
off her sunset-shoulders
of mannequin delight, she
raises eyebrows and
martini glasses,
her cut-out-and-keep
manicured hand
fluttering up your
thigh and a tantalising voice
dancing through the air
like the vanilla cigarette
smoke she breathes on Fridays .

but then there's me.
sucked up in sequin's falling
off one by one like acid rain
I raise my skirt way past
the horizon of my dignity
and gulp down vodka and
packets of chewing gum
patching it up clumsily
with French perfume

I coil my fingertips around
your right palm and ask
you (politely) not to hurt
me this time. please.
but you're already pushing my
head down, and I realise
now the difference between
her and me.