You treated me like a whore
at the Hotel du Gare
and attacked my adventurist disease
with a European scouring glove.

My first mistake was to let you believe
you could scrub other men off me.
Like my confusion before the bidet
it revealed New World naivete.

I suffered then, but not as much
as later. Why?
Because a woman who thinks
is a monster.

And a woman who demands sex
is a nymphomaniac.
I wanted...what did I want?...a little love
from a maximum of men,

cocks to fuck, hips to clutch
and the abrasions stubbled cheeks leave
on bare legs. Even now I desire
the naked torsos I see from my window.

Decapitated by panes,
their chests and bellies framed
for me, for what I need.
What do I need?...a little love.

You couldn't stand a woman
who wanted more than a man.
You couldn't stand a woman.
And I was so young then.

You thought I was unformed.
I wanted what you want:
ideas, adventure, flesh,
strangers to succumb, cigarettes.