There always comes the moment inevitable
As sunrise, unpredictable as the weather,
Partly cloudy and so suggestively hidden or maybe
Clear and bold and brazen and burning bright,
When up your skirt his hand
Slips, sticks, jabs, gropes, fumbles, feels
Around and around, higher, ever higher.
What’s a girl to do? Nothing,
Relax and enjoy it, or disentangle
From his embrace but ever so
Gently, naughtily, so he’ll do it again.
Does it matter what you have on?
Girl, encased in Wolford’s pantyhose enhanced
With a silk-lined Chanel skirt accentuating his
Rough, crude, muscular, callused hand, the awkward
Touch of his desire.
Prove you’re a woman, his hand demands.
He is, most men are, empiricist, logical
Positivist, penis philosopher, meaning
The only truth that can be known,
Tautological, a woman is that which embodies
Womanliness, softness that makes him hard.
The verity of materialism: nothing’s real,
Not even a pussy pudendum, unless
You can touch it. Finger it,
Feeling the touch of it, like
Shopping for lingerie. Never
Would I buy some underthingie without
First running it through my fingers, feeling,
Imagining the feeling, what he must feel,
The touch of a man’s hand with me in it.
A thong is a thing, and a cute thing is I in a thong.
Men want me to be their thing, to do their thing.
Yes, I’m a material girl, and I’ll open my legs,
Not, but my purse, to prove it.
See, silly man, there’s my Victoria’s Secret
Credit card, expiration 11/15, making me
An Angel, a card-carrying cunt.