"Spunk on my face and I'll call the cops"
This rape was not to be, it seemed,
the bawdy in-and-out
I'd had in mind.
She'd assigned the weapon
to press against her throat,
the colour-coded jizz-towel, the spot
in which I'd crouch, ache-legged,
lukewarm-groined, ready
to pounce and ravish her
(according to criteria).
You, my bored, yet hopeful
mutt, periscoped from habit,
only to meet
your waxwork replacement:
"Do me with this."
A purple
latex
buzzing
rabbit
ready to burrow.
I tried to make it worth
your while, but every time
my hand wrapped round
familiar heat
and gently pogo-ed -
"ME FIRST!"
- She tore us, dong
from digit,
jabbing a finger
at her own Veruca Salt.
I'm sorry I didn't leave
sooner, old boy,
but it's some small balm to know
that she'll be scrubbing
that crunchy carpet
for weeks.
