I went shopping for silk,
imagining myself as a mistress,
who goes hiking in the valleys of Los Angeles,
while waiting for her forbidden fruit to find some time,
to do dastardly deeds on the sheets his wife dutifully washes.
There is no wife,
I’m going straight,
in a sense,
though I remain the unfriendly, unapproachable neighbourhood bisexual you’ve come to love and loath in equal measure.
I like the adventure,
and the drama,
shopping for silk stockings,
lazing in lingerie,
finding his contact name,
in the fitting room,
asking myself if he might fancy a snapshot,
of my provocative purchases.
I want to be wayward and irresistible,
imagining a rendezvous,
with cider in champagne glasses,
gazing at a human form of heaven.
He is enough adventure for me.