Me & Perriwinkle

You

with your body made of

lust

deadly.


You

don't know

you'll be the

demise

of me.


I

watch you walk

long limbs

cat-like

smooth muscle

rippling under those thin pants.


It doesn't take much for me to imagine you naked.

I know I shouldn't, but I close my eyes and I can picture it. Long thin feet, bony ankles, hard narrow calves, narrow hips, slender firm waist. I know what you smell like- spicy sweaty sweet. I know you will have chest hair, and it will thin over your stomach and thicken again over that part of you I try not to think about, but can't seem to get off of my mind.

Like right now. I try to focus on your face- those deep gold brown eyes that search mine when we argue over whether or not I can put a Porsche engine in a V-dub (I can dammit), or your poet's mouth, full and cruel- like a woman's. I try to concentrate on your neck- elegant and strong- shadowed by the beard you can't seem to shave off. I try to think about your hands that fly like sparrows when you speak- but none of this works. I know what hides there. It's your penis I'm after.

It's not that I don't take you seriously as a person. I do. I value your ideas. It's not that I don't listen to you. You have some beautiful theories and you make me happy- but darling- why do you get upset if while we are conversing, my eyes drop to check out the goods?

I appreciate them. I am not tagging a value, a price tag, on you by what I see in your pants. And if sometimes, for example, in the middle of the presidential debates- I feel the need to peel those pants from your long lean hairy legs- why stop me? I want to fondle- to feel the weight of those dangle-y things I do not have, in my hands.

And don't you lie to me- your penis loves me. He sighs with affection. He stretches out, makes himself comfortable in my palm. He is warm and cozy, and hard and soft at the same time. I pet him and he jumps. I lick him and he shudders. He loves to be called dirty names and to be put on a leash and walked around the room.... He even enjoys a little rough housing now and then. I call him Perriwinkle.

Oh, but his owner- his owner is a different story. "You only want cock," says Perriwinkle's owner. "What about me? How am I supposed to feel?" Then he pouts, and sulks, and shuffles about the house, all downtrodden…

”Perriwinkle,” I say, “We need to do something about your owner.”

Perriwinkle nods in agreement.