Safe Sex

Off-set, off-stage, off-duty; away
from the spotlight, from the fierce glare –
for now, he can be wholly mine.
From one crowd to another,
from seat to Stage Door, and then…

Arms lock, bodies entwine,
the adrenaline of performance gone,
of performance about to begin,
courses through pulsing, red-hot veins.
His head dips, his mouth claims mine:
tastes mingle, dance.
Pre-show Merlot, interval mint choc-chip,
the swig of his post-show Red Bull;
the taste is perfect.
He is perfect.
A frantic taxi ride, a dash upstairs
to a haven of crumpled bedsheets,
of tousled hair, fingers tangling
as bodies find each other’s cues.
Make-up smudges (his and mine)
as costume and couture fly to the floor.
Standing for the key change, rising
to the production’s glorious climax –
we are our own standing ovation…

Breathless, sparks fly as fingers brush,
caressing the spine of the programme,
as he hands it back, scrawled black ink
declaring love to me, and me alone.
Then the next girl gets the same.
And the next.
Moment gone, spell broken, he moves away
back to the world where he belongs,
as I stare at the emptying pavement.

I know True Love when I see it.
This was it.
A glittering, glistening moment
in a greying, darkened world,
never to be replaced.
Until the next play rolls into town.