Roxy Makes House Calls by Ben Newell

“I see you’ve got
your porn,” she said,
commenting on the stacks
of magazines and DVDs.

Something about the way
she said this
rubbed me the wrong way,
dismissive and whatnot
as if she had seen my type
far too many times
and was rather jaded with
the predictability.

So I tried to ram it home
with extra force
but far too many beers
had rendered me
far too soft—

“It’s just sex,” she said,
trying to rub some life
into my organ.  “What are
you so nervous about?”

Then she placed her hand
on my chest.  “Your heart
is racing,” she said.  “Are
you okay, baby?”

“I think I’ve had too
much to drink,” I said.

We tried a bit more,
an exercise in carnal futility
as my blood had fled
to the wrong areas.

And later,
sitting in my apt.
with beer and cigarette,
I told myself that was it,
no more booze
prior to pay for play,
whatever play
was—

In this case,
more or less a physical
and psychiatric examination
by a sex worker
whose bedside manner
put my shrink’s
to shame.

Ben Newell is a fortysomething library clerk in Jackson, Mississippi. His poems have appeared in Carcinogenic Poetry, LUMMOX, My Favorite Bullet, Nerve Cowboy, Pink Litter, Yellow Mama, and other underground publications.