The biggest fantasy is
Some man would be a mind reader
Knowing instinctively what to say
To make me want him
In an instant
He’d just size me up
Know how to connect to me
Doesn’t that sound marvelous
Someone crossing your path
Just knowing how to be attractive
Or at the very least
Not a turn off
There are such men like that
We call them con artists
I have a friend
Let’s call her Lulu
She’s not a con artist
But whenever she wants
To declare the end of a relationship
Like a period
Punctuating the situation
She dyes her hair—at either end
Not sure if she flips a coin
Heads or coochie
But one or the other
Gets dyed some unnatural color
Commemorating the moment
Another part of her breakup ritual
Is swearing off sex
And welcoming celibacy
Like a beacon
Signaling sexual frustration
That unnaturally dyed hair
Ensnares the next
Future ex
Within her sensuous wake
All without talking dirty
Here’s a limerick:
Is it a good time for a kiss
She mentally asks her secret wish
If they don’t go to her head
They’ll travel down South instead
Like horny little fish
Now back to me:
I’m conflicted
What turns me on
Isn’t dirty talk
It’s intelligent talk
From a non-condescending man
Who listens
Very few men can actually pull
All three of those things off
Instead
There are many third-rate Romeos
With lots of words, dirty and all
Completely exhausting the limits
Of their vocabulary
Regurgitating clichés
Jokes and current sayings
Here’s a haiku:
Sweet-sounding words ooze
Warmly from his gorgeous lips
Like diarrhea
True inner conflict
Is being constipated
You aren’t funny, sexy, or intelligent
You’re miserable as hell
And full of shit
I want Love to be some tangible place
I can go to a map of the cosmos
Put my finger on it
Lovingly caress it
Become enveloped into a daydream
Save up enough goodwill
Good karma to take me there
Like the Staple singers sang about
I want the 12 coordinates of Heaven
Sought out and discovered by
Mathematicians, physicists and religions
Intersecting in undeniable existence
Proven by the yet-to-be-discovered new number
Unlike any other number
In existence
Here’s a play on an old nursery rhyme:
I have read
Now you’re less blue
Laughter is sweet
I bid you adieu