The Skirt Keeps Slipping

I am trying, I swear,

to be a good girl.

-

Polite at dinner parties,

eyes on the gravy, not the neighbor’s tits.

No thinking about how well they’d swing,

no stolen glances,

no quiet little hum in my throat when my wife smirks,

"Not again, Iris."

-

I nod. Behave.

Refocus on the chicken.

Do not imagine a well-spanked bum in its place.

Do not fantasize about pressing my old high school crush against the sink.

Do not push her into the bathroom stall

and wreck her until she sees God.

-

Nope.

None of that.

I am reformed.

-

But the damn skirt—

it keeps slipping.

Not my fault.

Gravity. Friction. Thermodynamics.

I am but a victim of physics.

-

Like that time at the polyamory meetup.

The skirt went first.

The panties followed.

The Spanish lady?

She was busy.

With… other things.

-

But let’s not dwell.

-

I mean, is it my fault

that heated car seats make things slide?

That hard problems demand firm solutions?

That when something lands in my lap,

I handle it… thoroughly?

-

Any good Samaritan would.

And I did.

Skirt back in place, everyone happy.

-

See? Good girl. Model citizen.

-

Sure, maybe the skirt slipped again.

Maybe I slipped—

but only slightly.

Did I forget something inside when I pulled it back up?

Who’s counting?

-

The important thing is,

we good girls love people.

We believe in happiness, generosity, and making the world a better place.

-

Like back in the day,

when I wasn’t in the mood but still did my job,

made them moan, kept the world turning.

-

And what did I get?

Not even cab fare home.

-

But no, let’s not dwell.

That’s the past.

I have a family now.

I have responsibilities.

-

I am trying so damn hard to be good.

-

But this stupid, treacherous, gravity-cursed skirt—

it. just. keeps. slipping.

.