English Breakfast And after he insisted on a nightcap, insisted that we see his newly-finished basement with the wall to wall memorabilia, faces, vinyls that had outlasted their collectors’ value, dust and us perched on wobbly barstools, after he refused to take no for an answer, after his wife tutted and left for bed, after he insisted on that second shot of bitter sherry, after he had hot-boxed the room with Cuban cigar smoke, as my eyes reddened as we started to cough, after he asked us something about what we had planned for the future, after it got stuck in my throat like a cashew down a windpipe, eyes darting to the ashtray (at least if he had asked us to explain how we had sex we would have had a reason to hate him), after I said I didn’t want to talk about it and he told us I must have some idea and laughed it off with “you women are always so hard to understand, so mysterious”, after we locked our room door and I sobbed about the void, the not-knowing, the future that was not supposed to look like this, your hand on my back on the fluffy bed that he had so generously let us crash on, yes afterwards, just after we woke up to seagulls, a slice of rare Northern sun cutting through the window, you hitched my hips onto your shoulders, forehead between my thighs, your tongue now certain of the ways it wanted to curl, forming words between my lips, then whimpers, how for the second time you let me put my mouth over your clit, how I devoured you so greedily I got you all over myself. I wanted us to stain that bed, a souvenir of our thanks he wouldn’t be able to hang up in his basement. No, I wanted to leave his ceiling dripping, to flood that precious fucking basement, I wanted to drown the entire town with both of us, gush into the bay, more gay in one house than they had seen in years, I wanted Disaster Relief to interrogate him about what the hell just happened. I wanted the townsfolk to write legends about us for centuries after: two mysterious girls whose combined power brought a whole town to its knees, who returned it to the sea, whose screams echoed cobblestones for months after they had left; at that moment you and I were just raw energy, the now and the future and nothing else mattered.
Stephanie Dogfoot is a poet and stand-up comic based in Singapore. They are the author of Roadkill for Beginners, a poetry collection published by Math Paper Press. They curate a monthly poetry night called Spoke & Bird. She has won poetry slam championships in Singapore and the UK, and represented these countries in international slams.