For those of you who are wondering, a retro-bonk is not a shag on a laminate table, whilst wearing a frilly apron (although, my goodness, that does sound like fun!). A retro-bonk is a (usually) once-off reprise of sexual activity with an old lover. I had one of these a few weeks back. He was someone I had a brief fling with a quarter of a century ago. It didn’t end nicely then. I was a pain in the arse. He was freshly out of a marriage and not needing some mad love-addicted, still-married, woman, chasing after him and writing him cringeful billets-doux.
Our long-awaited sequel was unexpected, unplanned and fabulous. I couldn’t repress my romantic notion that we were meant to wait all those years to mature and find each other again.
No prizes for guessing whether I have heard from him since.
This one has bruised my heart.
Today’s poem is about him. See how much I have matured? I don’t write sickly love letters to men anymore. I just write sickly love poems and post them on the interwebs for all to see.
Ode to a Retro-bonk
I was such a twit back then. Wrapped in love addiction and unhappy marriage and general madness.
God, you were magnetic! You reeked of sex and power and some seductive, devil-may-care cologne.
I don’t blame you for giving me the bum’s rush. Twenty-five years later I still feel a frisson of embarrassment.
I’m a different woman now. Cool, together, able to measure out my passion with a teaspoon, as opposed to a ladle.
You seem unchanged. A little weathered, maybe. More relaxed. You wear glasses now. And you still reek of it.
When you put your hands around my waist and bent down to kiss me, I had to fight back an adolescent swoon.
And when you fucked me all night, I wanted to run down the street, naked, yelling “hallelujah.”
Despite these wanton urges, I maintained my hard-fought-for dignity, and coolly waved you a farewell on the front porch.
I strode calmly to my car, and drove home, accompanied by my belief that fate had brought us back together, and that here was my man.
In hindsight, I should have just cracked a full twat-waffle love-addict tantrum, thrown myself around your bedroom and demanded that you put a ring on it.
You would have freaked and thrown me out.
But in the end,
What difference would it have made?