never trust a Chat Roulette dyke

Oh, I understand the cultural mechanisms at play. We are subverting roles. We are forward-thinking, splashing in piss and ideas. Guzzling tropes and spitting them out on our tits. Licking the shaft like we are changing a narrative.

It’s a glistened-til-it’s-puckered, bondage-infused, low-grade mincing of performative sex

and it’s

dull

dull

dull,

dry

It can be done. Obviously. It requires only the following:

a level of physicality

a slack jaw

a disassociated stare, cultivated from decades of wishing for something meaningful

when you ask me, with the hollowed voice of a dominant alcoholic,

Can Daddy slap you?

I smooth out my moustache, grab my cane

and croon,

for the cheap seats in the back,

Is that all there is?

Polly wants to be hurt by Peter. She wants her flannelette destroyed and to submit to a higher power. The only higher power is man.

Polly is an abuser. She hates every woman she’s with because she hates women. The only time she loves the ladies is when she’s breaking them.

In her down time, Polly exposes herself to men. They tell her what they want.

She fulfils their fantasies.

until she has enough fresh ideas.

Polly hates herself for craving the filth of Peter. She knows he’s a wife-beater in all the ways she pretends she’s not. She wants to be better than this. But it’s the alcohol talking. He knows she wants him to treat her like shit. She knows it’s all he has.

the joy

the zeal

the colour

the exploration

is antiquated and despised

by dykes,

who long to be called

Daddy

not all dykes! you say,

there are those who aren’t shrouded in lusting after father figures

and desiring the brutality of their innocence being quashed,

but there is flannelette hung up and pressed

with a sneer and a cock out,

a championship ring

branding the arses of willing femmes,

on every other corner

you are nothing without performance

the power is in the feminine

you grease-swilled swine