From Shot Up in the Sexual Revolution by Cynthia Huntington

So I slept with my lovers, I slept with my friends,
my lovers’ friends and my friends’ lovers,
friends of friends and so on.
I slept with my dealer and my dealer’s dealer, just to be sure.
I slept with some men I barely knew
to prove I was open minded, or to avoid an argument,
and I slept with some men I didn’t like
just to be nice, or, well, to avoid an argument.
You might say I had an open-door policy.

I took it three-ways, I took it sideways:
“thousands of men and a few hundred women.”
Hum jobs, tie me up, half-and half, and fuck the dog.
I took it in the ass, in my mouth, between my thighs
and way up inside from any angle. Yet what I loved most
was dancing to loud music: that beat through the floor,
and bodies swaying, sweating, the tension building,
and getting just to the edge of it, in a room, in a woods,
down a hallway wedged inside a bathroom stall, falling
down fast, or leaning back brace yourself
on the wall, diving into it like stepping on a mine- just
blowing yourself up, all the while holding on
to some sweating panting guy also blowing himself up-
just kick the door hard, mindless sex- I wanted it
as much as the next guy, the next high priestess of come,
and it was ours and all new and fine, and would never end,

until one day, love comes roiling up like a swamp gas
fermented for years in the collective unconscious
of old songs and bad movies, a distant memory wakening.
His thumbs in his belt loops, his crooked smile
and dark moods, and you think this one is a god
or an avatar of destiny, and you are nothing unless
he loves you too, and now everything is changed
and you let your life go, like a bad gene or a slow virus.
You’ve bought the gypsy’s curse, the heroine’s undoing,
that fatal weakness inscribed in a hundred novels
you read as a girl in your sweet gabled bedroom
while you were waiting for your life to happen.