The sweat beads. It drips.


He wants me to come to him

fresh from the gym.

In a dress.


My skin damp and glowing, pheromones 

pulling him in. Pulling him under. 


Between my legs, inside that dress. 

The little black one he always requests. 

(And don’t forget the heels.)


So I run, and the sweat beads. 


It drips, then traverses 

my back with intricacy.




Teres, both minor and major. 


And downward still.


And I can’t be still, so I push

forward. All breath and heat. 

And kink.


Running to him

in my mind.


(I gotta change and Uber soon.)


Thinking of his fingers.

His lips.


Retracing the route

of the beads

in an hour.