J.A. Carter-Winward

I could think of all sorts of ways to justify them,
one reason being he was always so spent
from looking at internet porn, but no matter.
Point is, I fucked around,
and I liked it.

I especially liked married men,
so sex-starved and disillusioned…
they were always hungry.

And I got to be the thing
they looked forward to the most.
It was great for the ego, theirs as well as mine.
They did shit with me
their wives would never do.
I would, not for them, but for me.

But my biggest excuse
was the role each wife played
in sending their husbands my way.

She withheld sex, bartered, manipulated.
And plus, she’d let herself go—
safely married, she no longer worried
about being attractive, interesting, or dynamic.
She’d reject his advances because he didn’t compliment
her new fucking earrings
or some shit.

The story was always the same.

So, in a way,
I was their sexual
comeuppance.

I was their punishment for their gratuitous arrogance;
taking their husbands for granted; holding them hostage
with their dry, uninviting cunts.
And the shitty bait ‘n’ switch
they’d pulled at the altar
the moment
they said
I do.

I’m not saying it was right
and I don’t do it anymore,
but I was
that woman,
once.

The one all housewives
whispered about
when their husbands
were finally caught
cheating.

I was a golem, the succulent succubus
of their serene suburban nightmares:

A terrible justice,
sucking on their
husband’s cocks.