Mismatch

He wanted to climb the ladder in her stocking but

had no head for heights; he wanted to

tie her up but was all thumbs; he put

heart and soul into spanking her but

hurt his wrist, so he tried his belt

but it broke; words like

“bitch” and “cunt” didn’t come

naturally to him and neither

tongue nor penis felt

long enough for the job at hand.

Meanwhile, she endured the

spankings, the swear words, the

broken belt, the more than

adequate organs of pleasure but

just wanted to be loved, to be

kissed and kissed and

kissed again and kissed

again.

An Oxford Whore

In my gown and mortar-board--the ones I’d

worn to receive my PhD--very high heels and

nothing else, I bent over to show

tonight’s patron the part of me

without brains as this one was an

arse-bandit for whom I was

well-prepared and there was a

particular problem in astrophysics I could

ponder until he was ensconced and I could

enjoy, though it amused me that

while I saw the stars he

plundered where there was no sun.

There was not much call for

cosmologists in the current climate and the

conundra of the current account

foxed even my mathematical mates now

counting chips at McDonald’s, so

why not sell my body whilst it was

still mine to sell?

Logic is much misunderstood and the

logic of prostitution more so but

do we need the dismal science to

elucidate the obvious?

Men will pay when women provide and

Oxford is full of clever, desperate men:

my mind is still mine, galaxies still

spin across it, and besides,

someone has to make the

spires dream and

stay erect.