Friday, 23 November 2012


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

Friday, 16 November 2012

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.