jessica S. frank

Jessica S. Frank currently lives in Louisiana as she completes her MFA from McNeese State University. Her work has appeared in Portage Magazine, Eunoia Review, Gold Dust Magazine, Silver Birch Press, and is forthcoming at Ninth Letter Online.

 
 

the way into my pants

isn’t through descriptive sex talk
and leading questions,
What do you want to do to me?
Do you want to watch me right now?
I’ll Skype you. 

And it isn’t by asking me
what my best friend’s name is
so you can look her up and
potentially hook up with her.

And it isn’t through
rude insulting words,
after I deny your pleads
for something that can only
be classified as fun for you.

When you say goodnight
and I say it back with an anecdote,
your reply of “Didn’t ask”
won’t open my legs, it won’t undo my fly
it won’t trick the dragon guarding the draw bridge
into a deep sleep so you can storm the castle.
No, this princess doesn’t need you,
there are plenty of more-honorable men
out there, waiting to have their way with me.

You are merely flexing your off-putting,
woman-come-please-me, girls-like-assholes
uninformed muscles;
the kind manufactured by a late night
sausage-fest of buddies at the bar,
once you’ve insulted all of your
female prospects away and talk about
how they were all probably lesbians.

Please accept this teachable moment
from me:
the one with the breasts and warm
moist caverns you’d like to visit,
the one with the good-smelling hair
and smooth skin, the one with the
talented mouth you’d like to be in.

The only organs you
will be using with me tonight
are your eyes,
watching me sign off.