MC Frontalot Follow

Just once, I don’t want to hump tonight.
Why can’t we hang out and talk? Pie
is a delightful treat. Let’s share a slice together.
Then you and I can say goodnight
and wander into a dream.

Just once, I don’t want to kiss and hug tonight
on the rug by the side of some firelight.
Glass of wine, soft music, the whole nine yards.
You shuffle Kama Sutra Illustrated tarot cards.
You sing, “Tough luck, buddy, this is your fate.”
Then you render prediction: that you and I are to mate,
that it’ll be great. You point out: it always is.
So I should take off my clothes, so you can give me the biz.
I say Ms., please tarry, desist for a spell.
You know that you’re my very number one mademoiselle,
and I’m luckier than I can describe
to have a woman of your caliber ever give me the eye.
Still, try to see it from my position:
you have such a high sexiness coefficient,
and though the flesh is willing, my spirit is weak.
I keep imagining an evening when I don’t get freaked.

Why can’t we just hold hands at the cinema?
We hump twice in the handicap stall, minimum,
before the previews roll, then the popcorn, hole
in the bottom. Subtleties: these are not ‘em.
The keys: glad I brought ‘em. You’re cuffing yourself
to the custodial closet’s utility shelf.
Futility melts into purpose: I play the warden one more time.
You’re inordinately fine.
Now by my measurements, you’ve had a few O’s.
Why don’t we just treasure it, cuddle and rub noses,
put clothes on and on and don’t stop till we’re totally clad.
Then my soul could be glad,
to have a moment in your company without all the moans,
maybe replenish some ATP, settle our bones.
Dulcet tones: share feelings, ideas, and views.
How come you want me for my body when my brain is so huge?