Atop my head, sir, is my hair
worn loose or coiffed to suit the
time of day or the company I keep
--luxurious, is it not? And it will
take a tug or two should
passion demand it.
My eyes, sir, are for seeing and for
telling an intuitive soul what
roils within my otherwise
hidden heart—they are green,
are they not? and they are not averse to perusing a
handsome form and all its attributes.
My mouth, sir, is for eating and drinking and
smiling (for you do not want to see the
purse of my unhappy lips, tighter than
any Exchequer) –are those lips
red, sir? and plump and unafraid to be
dyed white by a man’s exuberance.
These arms, sir, can carry and clasp and
these hands—are they not delicate and
unadorned?—can caress, make the
soft hard and hard
soft again. Are they not
extraordinary hands, sir?
These, sir, are my breasts: they
feed children and, when not tender,
enjoy the attention of those who
please to play the child’s role
--bounteous, are they not? and
bounty should be shared.
Behind this well-wooded copse, sir, is
my vagina, from which by nature’s whimsy
men go in and babies come out
--luxuriant, is it not? When it purrs it
answers to puss but harsher names have
sometimes not displeased.
A neglected path, sir, meanders to
my anus, designed to void my waste but,
as all you well-brought-up young men seem to know,
curiously amenable to insertion
--is it not dark and comely when I
bend for you like this?
These sites of interest, sir, sit upon legs of
surprising strength for one
so slender, ending in feet capable of
spurring the most sturdy of steeds to
superhuman speed, when speed
Is my miscellany a pleasure, sir, or too
complicated to comprehend? Is it just my
sturdy thighs you wish to ride? Or
can you find your way into the
sturdy heart that makes all these parts,
all these interwoven parts,
work as one?