Satellite Vagination System

“Are you gay?” she asks, my face
devouring her jelly-trampolines of ecstasy,
her milk-nozzles
the next to be encased in scenes
of club-cocked growling.
“No. Not gay,” I pant. “Why?”
And then, oh, shemozzle! She’s howling
like it’s black-and-white as Charlie Chaplin
why my gnarly javelin has no glint in its eye
for cunnilingus, my blood hardly travelling
at the thought of sticking my tongue
into a folded washing-up glove slung
over a hairy baked-bean Swiss roll,
a bag of worms and offal.
“Why can’t you be a scrounger in a dole-queue,
a soldier in a sweetshop, a kid in a brothel,
a Teddy Boy in a milk diner,
a Welshman in a zoo,
over my vagina?
Are you gay?” she demands. I hiss, “No!”
then softly, “Look, fannies make me frown, see,
because they’re just so
horrible. But I love your bouncy
blancmanges of womanly heavenliness.”
The next time we meet each other
she has a strange screen
like a tool for Big Brother
where her beret had been,
fastened round her chin
and causing consternation.
She says, “This is the easiest way in,
it’s a Satellite Vagination System,
it’ll show you the clitoris
from where the shitter is.
Take my breasts, but after you’ve kissed ‘em,
have a venture into the unknown.”
So my hand glides southwest
and a voice like an answerphone
pipes, “Turn left at Labia Majora”
and the arrows on the electronic vagina map
guide me like the Torah guides a rabbi, and she sings
like a flock of sparrows having a crap.
The satvag rings out, “Straight ahead after Urethra”
and now she’s warbling like Aretha Franklin
as I wonder if I’d be better off wanking
and that I prefer her pretty face, her belly,
her tits. I lie watching the telly,
even though it’s the Coronation Street omnibus.
Hell, Rome wasn’t built in a day,
just ask Romulus.
Clitoral Stimulation Street is clearly one-way,
you see, the fingers aren’t exactly hubs of erogeneity.
So, with what I deem spontaneity
and huge imagination,
I continue the vagination with my feet,
over which labia
feel as sweet as perfumes of Arabia
until she shouts,
almost having a fit,
“Get your toenails out, they’re scraping my clit!”