Talking dirty
April 13, 2012
“Talk dirty to me,” she says.
I say I don’t know how but I do,
My brain overgrown with worn out phrases
Like dipping my wick,
Or giving some dick
After all these years
Jerking off to Playboy
And cheap tricks to chicks
On 42 nd Street,
Or dating strippers
Who trade blow jobs
Snoots of coke
I know enough,
To know which end
Of the candle to burn
And which end to stick
Into her cunt
My uncle was a backdoor man
(boys or girls it didn’t matter)
I always go in through the front door
Resisting the temptation of sissy boys
Who look like but don’t have
The access points girls supply,
that porn girl in LA,
Choreographer for Broadway
Pretending I didn’t know
What was what
When I really did
Naïve in the wrong way,
Aching to be licked and be licked
But she scares me
In that if I say what I really mean
I might scare her away.
God knows, I have to work with her,
And already think too much
About what I could, would do
When in the same room,
Now, we playing phone text
Only she’s not a recording,
And me, thinking, how I’d slip
It in if she let me,
Front door, back door,
Oral or not
“Talk dirty to me,” she says
And I see a glass stained
With other men’s cum
Between us,
Like one of those 15 minute
Booths in Manhattan,
She on the other side
Waiting patiently
For me to leave my mark
On the glass as well.
“Talk dirty to me,” she says
And I get tongue tied
Caught in a confused fog
Wondering what I might say to her
Tomorrow
If I say what she wants me to say
Today.
Can I look into her deep, dark eyes
And not see my reflection in glass,
Stroking until it all comes out,
Feeling dirty just to think about,
Wondering if she would hate me
If I painted her lips with it,
Or her tits,
Or dove deep into the abyss
Where it all comes out eventually,
The fingers of my one hand
Feeling the throb coming
While my other hand
Grips the phone,
Confused as to which
Hand I should use for what.
“Talk dirty to me,” she says.
And I’m scared to death.
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