About those times when you feel attracted to a fifty something old man who ends up revealing a real leck of interest in feeding your beliefs about the eternity of sexual life

Reading Charles Bukowski at night
in bed, before sleep
helps me fantasize
about different studs
who actually bound better than this one
it certain reminds me
the real smell of a man
which I no longer recall
alcoholic drinks
cigarette smoke and
used sweaty clothes
are just the perfect combination
to manliness
Then I saw thousands of those men in
Argentine
or over midnight dirty old clubs
chasing young girls
to later on, at night
fuck
like hungry wolfs
with their big empty beer mugs
and white thick stains
all over their crotches and groins

But there's one man
listening Frederic Chopin
while reading William Burroughs short stories
which is merely an act of desperation
because doing both at the same time
is never right
on this condictions
Observing him in my mind
has helped me concentrate
on this kind of purple old fleshy veined dick
which was hopping in front of me

So, I sat down on my quilt
Try read some more Bukowski
and I'm only starting
when the snoring begins
and I'm terrified
This man keeps squirming on the bed
calling me honey and stuff
and his used ties are
left over the floor and dressing table
like used condoms
in an animal night
Just that,
this was not an animal night
And as the snoring increases
I give up, puting my book on the shelf
turning to the left to sleep
But the image of this
forty blonde old guy
is strolling all over my mind
so I spread my legs
and please myself
When he wakes up
drowsy and mad
with this hard on
which I hopeful take notice
as he turns to me
and keeps saying
Oh honey, it's nothing, go back to sleep