My father keeps trying to convince me
to visit a prostitute. You’re too depressed
he says. A good fuck against an IKEA bench
will apparently cheer me up, make me better,
ensure the scattered puzzle pieces
of my heart find togetherness once more.

He thinks about sex a lot. Have you ever
walked in on your father masturbating?
I have – it’s a cyst I long to burn
from my retina. His invitation
to a brothel, a good brothel no less,
is hardly a noble gesture.
His only dream is to wet his cock
with the fluids of a stranger,
and he needs to be seen as my chauffeur
as to not arouse suspicion from my mother,
who knows he’s a cheating scumbag
already, though, as a disabled woman,
there’s little she can do,
when he takes care of her – or says he does.

Obviously I have thought deeply about fucking
someone for the enjoyment; to feel the thrill
as I bury myself inside a darling woman’s orgasm,
feeling her tender flesh biting down upon my muscle.

The erratic breathing, as we succumb to the juicy climax,
and fall into each others arms the moment cum
explodes out of me.

To nibble her delicate flesh,
hearing the passionate sighs as I fill my mouth
with her lower regions, and wipe away the sex
with a kiss upon those ripe lips of hers.

But I recall the sensation of making love
to someone my heart had fused itself with
for hours on end, our bodies covered in so much sweat
afterwards, the ocean was a desolate landscape
in contrast. How could a minute or two,
compare with the hours of intoxicating excitement
bestowed by the warmth of a paramour?

It could not, regardless of how badly I need to fuck my face off right this instant, I cannot, will not, shall not, condemn my late eighteenth century heart, in the body of a sex-induced adult, to ride shotgun, as my penis takes the wheel.

I think only with my heart, not with the tenacious,
manipulating scoundrel between my legs (though
I must admit, my hand loves him a lot).

I can wait, I do believe. But I cannot wait forever.

Future lover, where are you when I need you most?

Come to think of it – in a few months time,
those prostitutes will look awful tasty.


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