How easily you make me hard.
That black lace thing you brought back
From Hollywood, the time you
And Marcy went to the convention,
That one's obvious, but there's the way
Your voice goes low and raspy when
You say I want you to... or Come here and...
It doesn't even matter what words
You choose—it's that Barbara Stanwyck tone
That flips me on like a neon sign
At sunset in the window of a biker bar
Out by the oil fields. Those sleepy, slitted
Eyes you get work like kerosene
Thrown onto a campfire. Your touch,
A gentle, feathered finger on my wrist,
The back of your hand gliding down
My cheek, oh and of course when you reach
Around and heft my soft weight. That,
Indeed, works too. All of these things work
Because they tell me you want me (me!)
To enter into your perfect beauty.
Forgive the violence of my need.