She wears tight red dresses, six inch heels. She looks at you like she’s looking through you. Diamond nails to scratch your back till it bleeds.
She picks– him. She knows he’s too weak to ever leave. But he wants what she has to offer, she sees that in his eyes. Why wouldn’t he? His girl is cruel, petty. Belittles his concerns, his job, his…everything. Spends his money like water.
And then she comes along, swinging her hips and her flashy red hair. She can tell he wants her. When she flaunts herself and her stories. All her exploits. She laughs, as if pretending it’s just something she’s made up. Perhaps something she saw on TV. But she sees the question behind his eyes. Is she for real? Oh, she thinks, you have no idea.
He tells her, I don’t usually do this kind of thing. As if she cares. Pray to me, I’m your goddess. Who else makes you feel like this? Who else cares for your pleasure? Worship me like the God they tell you about every Sunday. Make it count.
She says,
I’ll keep you my dirty little secret.
Don’t tell anyone or you’ll be just another regret
My dirty little secret, who has to know?
She doesn’t care. People call women like her whore and home wrecker– and she writes those words on red lipstick on her oh so soft breasts, her wide ass. A body men and women dream of. And she gives it freely. Well, perhaps not freely. She is a whore, but a damn expensive one.
But not money, no. She demands their time, their attention. Give me what you won’t give your wife. What your wife doesn’t notice she’s not getting, because she’s elsewhere fucking the pool boy. Take your desires from me, snatch it from my pussy.
So she takes them out, dances all night, rubs herself against their crotch, dares them to take her right there in the bathroom.
And spinning on the dance floor, she laughs,
Just dance,
It’s gonna be okay.
Just dance.