Café au lait CasanovabyNeonurotic©
Late night, 1 AM, refueling my red-eye writer's insomnia,
with venti vanilla lattés at the corner coffee house.
Sated in caffeine, now cruising for my other fix,
playing it smooth, leaning back with boot heels
rudely, crudely kicked up on the table.
It's all right they know me,
I'm a permanent fixture here,
much like the fake ficus trees,
over sized china mugs,
clichéd café French art—
yes, of course, it's always
'Monet's Water Lilies'.
Ten minute's shy of a coffee induced sober up for whispering,
giggling ones that pique my ever philandering mind.
Casting a roving eye, I smirk then give them my best
'fuck me' grin, as they are my favorite flavor,
snobby rich girls that have forgotten their
practiced, bored, 'I'm-too-good-for-you looks',
vapid, haute monde attitudes,
flirt and make eyes at me with
primped up, caked on face paint,
wearing slinky designer clothes—
yes, the very best that
daddy's money can buy.
Wantonly wicked smiles elicit me to meander over,
sipping, my now lukewarm java as they size me up,
silently deciding which one's coming home with me.
Maybe the frosted blonde with silicone lips;
or the overly perfumed raven-haired beauty
hiding the stink of an unknowing, fool of a fiancé.
soon enough, the nocturnal nookie is revealed
with wandering hands and an up close rub,
scenting my crotch with her eau de cologne.
Flirting with me is something risqué—
yes, a definite naughty
thrill for her night.
Relaxed lasciviousness has another under my eroto-charm,
back at my place, on her knees; without a single stitch
on her perfectly insipid, plastic surgery body,
where I find she sucks and swallows
expertly, cock sucks me dry;
satisfying that perverted,
horny, satyric lech that breathes,
lives, and incites me,
giving me motivation
for tomorrow's naughty write—
yes, my artful muses are
sex and lattés.
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