The body pops every Saturday.
It starts around 10 or 11 pm, and it doesn't stop until the party gets shut down.
She twerks. She goes. She gets it. She bad.
I don't know who these musicians be talking about, but me?
I can't be her.
I can't be just a body that a male comes up behind and has his way with for the duration of
My body can't be so close to someone I hardly know,
Butt to pelvis, back to chest.
The intimacy is too real, and knowing that it's over after one song is too much.
The come and go, hit and quit, toot and boot,
All characterized in the way he comes behind
And the way he leaves.
It's too degrading, simultaneously too real and fake, reminds me too much of other things.
I need my worth. Need it.
So I can't be his bad bitch for the night.
Because if I'm grinding on him, I need to know he's worth my effort, worth every drop of sweat.
I need to know he won't leave me after one song.
Need to know that we can either have a conversation afterwards or do the same dance without clothes.
If I'm popping on him, I need to know he can snap-crackle it back.
I need to know that even though I don't have the biggest ass in the room, I'm the one he wants.
Have to know that my jiggle doesn't repulse him, nor is it what brings him.
Need to know that he can look me in my eyes with the same intensity he looks at my parts.
I have to know these things
Before I can grind, pop, twerk, gyrate on him.
I'll have to wait a while before he comes my way. But that's okay.
Because I move this pen better than I move this ass anyway.