the kind of guy
for whom
eating pussy
could have easily been
a chore
or his favourite pass-time
it was hard to tell
For that matter,
what gave away whether
a man ate pussy like it was
the last slice of cold
watermelon on a sweltering summer day,
or not?
Actually, perhaps it seemed
like it would be a chore.
He did speak in a way that
revealed enough, but not too
much. Was this calculated?
Everything about him screamed
tenderness. Except his hands,
they proclaimed presence.
What they were used for was
wetting clay and moulding
pots. But are pots not like pussy?
I wondered. I guess they aren't.
After all, they can't feel or respond.
Or perhaps they are, because all they do
is respond.
There is no pretense in pottering.
There should be no pretense in petting,
but petting is all pretense.
