Lap Dance

It shouldn't matter, I suppose,
the scarring from some surgery
with cantaloupes the size of those.
Indeed, I'd gladly sell my soul
for this serpentine Salomé
to whom I slip a dollar bill
among the others in her thong
that barely hide her labia.

"Why, you cheap­fucking­skate," said she,
"Rate's a five­fucking­spot or more!"

And when I say "Why, Ms. Tmesis!"
I'm now a "fucking doryphore."

"What the hell's a doryphore?"
I say to her, but soon recall,
she's the one who writes pulp fiction,
Ms. Insouciant PhD,
I wrote an op-ed piece about
in the sophomore weekly rag
who also teaches English Lit
at junior college just like me.

I mean "I." I meant to say "I."
I did. I really did.

Edited version of a prior challenge in the "Poetry Forum and Discussion" thread.