“Grindr” by Rob Jacques

A week from now you will be tucked into bed
by a lover who will stab you in your sleep
      — Bryan Borland

You know he won’t be good for you, to you,
and you get that he’s a sexual sociopath at heart
who feels nothing, nothing, nothing at all, so
right from the start everything he’s going to do
to you is going to be your own damn fault.

He’s a wolf and his lovely eyes narrow to slits
with desire.  You know he won’t love you back,
and you wonder when touching becomes assault
or following you to your car becomes attack or
a simple, harmless try at orgasm unleashes fire.

You know what you are.  You know the score.
Go ahead and smile and nod and play your part
to coax him to you where he’ll strip you bare-ass
in a way that you’ve never been bare-ass before.
He’ll rip you to enjoy your body pieces à la carte.

You asked for it, so don’t pretend you didn’t feel
excited by the challenge of balancing sex with
survival.  You basked in it, pretending danger wasn’t
real, you sweating and stressing until his arrival,
you, submitting to sexual humiliation by a stranger.

He came, you didn’t.  He was satisfied, you weren’t.
He left haughty and sated, knowing all the same that
you won’t be calling him again, he having left his
bridges burnt, you temporarily sick of bondage men,
you temporarily sorry shame is what makes you tick.


Rob Jacques resides on a rural island in Washington State’s Puget Sound, and his poetry appears in literary journals, including Atlanta Review, Prairie Schooner, Amsterdam Quarterly, Poet Lore, The Healing Muse, and Assaracus.  A collection of his poems, War Poet, was published by Sibling Rivalry Press in March 2017.