Tunnel of Love
It looked uncertain.
I tottered in, heels
skittering on the pink plastic.
There were water trails
before the pleasure boat rocked.
My rocker was on board.
I say ‘my’ he was anyone’s,
with his bleached, blond quiff,
curl caressing his left eyebrow,
scar bisecting the right,
so he looked almost symmetrical,
apart from his hands.
His hands were all over me,
before we’d even sat
on the wet, moulded seats.
And I never did. I sat on his lap.
My neat, white pencil skirt,
tight as a condom.
He couldn’t pull it up or down.
It wrinkled along my untouched body,
wedged against his heaving drainpipes.
Yet we bobbed, as one,
bashed into the fake grass
and the fibre glass cave, together.
I had so little for him to squeeze,
as we juddered through the darkness.
His hormones masked by Brut,
£1.99 from the precinct,
and that gorgeous roll-up,
which tasted all the better on his tongue.
He called it his ‘shag break’,
his other recreation,
aside from riding the dodgems,
leaping from one to another
with balletic ease in his narrow jeans,
like a sexy bus conductor.
And he was thin, tight muscles
alert in his black t-shirt,
little more than a boy.
Yet he looked so much older,
cruising the dodgems with his sneer,
chipped tooth and chiselled hair.
I knew enough to keep my hands
out of his hair. I kissed him hard,
slid off his lap in the sunshine.
He didn’t help me out of the boat,
just lit another cigarette, its tip
sparking the way to the electric cars.
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