Brunette at 3 o'clock

I approach you in cliché
with mild apprehension,
searching for an easy
friend in you. If
I asked your sign
or bought you the wrong drink
would it show you
that I am not
a player--they have
experience. I could
excuse the act
by pointing out
I'm following my base
biological
imperative,
looking to take you home.
Asking your name--
wanting your un-inhibition
to see your soul exposed
in a dark-hour orgasm.
Are there pheromones
in the air here,
drawing me in
awkward insect motions
to your sweat-traced figure?
Not wanting complications
only mutual
violations, sounded out
in fuck-voiced moans
of satisfaction,
is that too much to ask?