the lightweight

s/he’s one of those that giggles
when the talk of porn, raunch, whips,
chains, wax, electrocution, dildos,
fucking machines of all shapes &
colors, butt plugs & clothes pins,
paddles & orgasm producing
toys of all sorts,
is brought out into the open
(and the uncomfortable tone in
his/her laugh, is one that announces
to the other occupants of the room
just how curious s/he is & just how
bad s/he wants to know)---
s/he’s the type of adult who acts like
they never left the sandbox,
the kind that thinks his/her “god”
is always watching,
especially when
s/he’s going at himself/herself in the
dark, hoping that someday, something
sexually exciting,
will ever,
ever, ever,
ever, ever,
ever, ever,
ever, ever,
ever, ever,
happen again.

for what reason the lightweight
hides his/her true need
(as if there will be a s & m parlor in the
“afterlife,” where
s/he’ll be able to be stretched to the
brink, then
drilled, prodded, burned, shocked,
beat, slapped, pinched, cut, fingered,
fucked, pricked, splashed &
pushed to all extremes),
no one knows,
but inside is a fuse that’s been lit &
every time s/he comes in contact with
what temptation has tried to lure him/her
in with, for so long,
is one moment closer to that
cataclysmic explosion,
whose acts will probably,
inevitably,
kill
the
lightweight.