My butt looks better in leggings than naked,
the tight smooth fabric like a compression against my flab,
against the cellulite born from long nights with belly full of beer
and pizza, tacos, and cock I didn’t care for.
You like it best when I’m jiggling below your waist,
as you thrust into me like sliding forward without
using your feet or hands, but humping momentum
to push me into the pillows and the dark wood headboard.
I’m wearing leggings anyways, smiling as I twist
in mirrors at work, and happy how my hips flare
wide as shoulders, and the heavy bounce I exaggerate
when he stares at my chest, not realizing I see his eyes.