- Erotic Poetry
- March 2000
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It’s hard to remember.
So long ago that one memory merges with another, that days, even weeks don’t matter, only months and years.
March I think it was. Funny how you always remember the remarkable times, recalling each detail with amazing clarity, years later. I suspect this last was far from remarkable.
March 2000.
She was a Cape Coloured during my stay in Cape Town and it was just one night and one moment in time, not to be repeated. I remember the awkwardness of two strangers, the predictable troubles getting the condom on, the slow but determined coupling as we marched towards orgasm.
March 2000.
And before that October 1999 with my then girlfriend, Annie. Six months between drinks, certainly long enough to mourn the death of that relationship.
And now, as we close out July 2002, I’m looking at two years and three months, with no end in sight. Oh sure, my wondrous Princess Isabella has had a play with it, as I have with her, but in our strangely stilted yet kinky world, we have not consummated our periodic dalliances. Let us not seriously compare a few fumbled tugs with a hand to the warm wet of a willing mouth or the silky heat of a juicy pussy.
March 2000.
Someone get me a plaque. It should read:
Forgive me if this sounds quite silly
But here lies Bitch Boy’s poor old willie
It slowly died of lack of use
And Mrs Palmer’s harsh abuse
~ Last buried in some unnamed South African tart ~
March 2000.
R.I.P.
March 2000.
Rest in peace, indeed.
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