Post-coital feminism

“I don’t believe in an intersectionalist God”, he teased
Sheets coiled about his knees as she padded towards the bathroom.
Her deliberate poise intersecting with shame
at the moon landing terrain of her thighs.
“Get a bleedin’ life, would ya”, she retorted over her shoulder
towards him lying prostrate in submission to her naked point of view.
His deliberate pose obsolete given the rainbow of
pillow-creases along his face and the victorious underwear
discarded with indifference along the hedges of the bed
like fast-food wrappers whipped by the wind from car windows.
Those perspiry days of summer.
Rolling over on his back, he waited to be stroked by
her star-grabbing exuberance at the urgency of it all.
But first she had to undress at least five other men.
Crossed-legged on the bed she hung her left brow on
a hook high upon her forehead and gazed intently at
the men overcome by waves of canned praise of her as
her fingers tap-danced up and down their torsos
one by one until she felt sure they were
 – hashtag –