The Disengagement Party

I saw you looking

Over dinner

Your smile discreet

Hers a winner

I realised there

Was something more

When she sashayed

To the dance floor

I knew it then

In revelatory style

It’s obvious we

Won’t walk up the ailse

Predators

Twenty three years in prison

Is nowhere near enough

For men like you to realise

We are not your ‘bit of fluff’

Women In Stand Up

You
don’t
half
speak
shite

He
said

Your
patter
couldn’t
be any
wetter

Well
why
don’t
you take
the mic

She
said

And
we’ll
see if
you can
do better

Sinderella

Is that
the time,
he said,
I should
get my
things
and leave

Well don’t
let me
keep you,
she said,
for I have
others
to please

Your Smile

Even though
my heart
currently
resides
in the
deep freeze

Your smile
still has
the power
to make
me go weak
at the knees

Blythswood Square

She remembers she is hungry. She shoves a hand inside the leg of her boot.

Nothing.

She finds herself in Blythswood Square. The shadowy figure approaches her, but she is not afraid. It’s the fourth one tonight.

‘Twenty quid with’ she replies, ‘Twenty five without’.

She leads him down the darkened alley. Still, she is not afraid. He won’t last. They never do.

She reaches for the tissues from her pocket and wipes between her legs. She drops them to the ground as she slides the twenty pound note down into her boot. She puts the fiver inside her bra.

She strides down to Queen Street Station and pays the fifty pence to use the loo. It feels good to wash the stains from her body.

She ambles back up towards Sauchiehall Street to her favourite take away. She eats two slices of pizza with extra jalapenos, hoping to burn the taste of the men from her throat.

She stands outside, smokes a cigarette, and wonders what to do. She trudges back towards Blythswood Square.

Just two more, she thinks. Two more and I can go home.

‘First Dates’

She awoke that morning to the sound of the bells. Those fucking incessant church bells that plagued her every Sunday morning. She opened one eye to the world and, as the daylight scorched her alcohol soaked retina, she quickly closed it again. Fucking tequila, she murmured. Never again. Yeah, right.

Then she remembered. Shit. She tentatively slid her hand across the mattress. She felt his presence before she heard his snore. Fucking tequila, she murmured again. Bollocks.

She took a deep breath and forced both of her eyes open to absorb the piercing light this time. The bells had stopped thank fuck. One less thing to deal with.

She sat up, carefully, and embraced the world. She wasn’t ready to wake the man whose name she had forgotten – or in truth had never known – just yet.

She crawled, with great difficulty, from the bed. Every bone feeling like a dead weight, she managed to pull last nights shirt over her head and stumble to the kitchen.

She took a glass from the draining board and filled it with ice cold water from the stainless steel tap. She revelled in the smooth taste cleansing her mouth, her throat and her head. She glugged down four paracetamol and proceeded to the bathroom to wash the lingering taste of the man from her mouth.

She looked at herself in the mirror. I look like I feel, she thought, and I feel like shit. Still, first things first. She needed to get this fucker out. Composing herself and her aching limbs she strode into the bedroom; clapping her hands loudly as she stepped.

‘Rise and shine sleeping beauty’ she croaked. ‘Time to go’. The mound of stale sweat, alcohol and drool lay motionless under the duvet. ‘I said come on motherfucker – move’. She shouted louder this time pairing her cry with a swift kick to what she hoped was his kidney area. The man whimpered as he rolled over on to his front.

‘Just come back to bed, babe’ he muttered sleepily.

‘Babe? Are you fucking shitting me mate? Just get the fuck out of my bed!’ She was shaking him now as he heaved himself upright. Dazed and confused he looked into her eyes, realisation slowly dawning that if he wanted to keep his testicles intact he’d better not argue. He hurriedly dressed as she shooed him out of the bedroom and pushed him out of the flat – the front door knocking him over as he pulled on his boots.

‘Well, thanks for that and everything. But I won’t be calling you again’ she snipped.

‘But, I..’ was all she heard before she slammed the door in his puzzled, but albeit pretty cute, face.

She stalked back to bed, vowing never to drink tequila again.
Yeah, right.