On a lack of seduction

we both knew why we were there,
so you asked "would you
like to dance, do you
want to?" but i didn't.
but i can call up clearly the look:
your whiskers and eyes, begging
like a Setter's puppy. are my eyes
deceiving me--or are these a pimp's?
and when i sent you for a drink
already you were in my bed
spent and encouraged to kindly
get the fuck out, fuckhead.
and how you strove to charm me, to appear
so gentlemanly and caring; in
another, less obvious, way, interested.
but i knew your purpose as leaning
your mouth asked me such a neutral question
i couldn't even laugh at it,
so instead i made plans, spiderlike
to wait for your machination
and turn the creature, your lust
against you. i don't care how a man looks
at a woman; i know this look
in my bones. we all do,
but behind these lashes lowered
to demurely allure sits that same dark
creature. you said, "we can
talk better outside." i agreed
tried to conceal my greed
tried to and fortunately chatterboxed
you into my bed, now
empty. and the stink you left
washed and purged,
all in an evening's work. as
it were, your work, for one of us knew
each move in the game far in advance
of your own blind chessmatch feat
of giving not what i cannot ask
but what you feverishly offer.
crystalline purity the prick
has, doesn't it, and i waiting,
waiting, why don't you
mention "getting out of here"
again? and go, sating, sated
why don't you.