She’d felt stranded in Sussex
beneath the gibbous moon
jibing at her through
broken clouds.
She’d tried Essex—dull, plebian—
failed to find Wessex,
contemplated Nosex—
dismissed it.
She’d thought Brighton would be—well,
bright, but the Allsex on
offer was somehow as
damp as the air.
She’d dumped her husband for the
zillionth time, though he’d be back,
coiled in oil, trailing
fit mechanics.
She’d fuck them all of course, it being
expected of her, chained as she was
to the heart, soul and
sink of love.
She’d hoped to find respite from sex but
her genes said otherwise, her loins
always wet, her pheromones a
red rag to bulls.
She’d scoured the small ads for
somewhere remote from the
relentless smell of men, in the
high Downs perhaps, a
small stream draining, no masculinity
except that kept neatly labelled and
bottled against need,
locked in her shed.
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