Call me a Cougar? Honey, that's too mild: I'm a wildlife preserve for the sexually wild. Let's review the roster of the week, shall we? Monday was a bicycle courier named Lee. He smelled like chain grease and cheap deodorant spray; We did it on the carpet, in the middle of the day. On Tuesday I managed a kid from Connecticut Who lacked every shred of biological etiquette. He swaggered in smelling of cheap spray testosterone And fumbled the class like a nervous, lost moron. Wednesday I undressed a scholar of calculus Who charted the angles to properly tackle this. He carried the one and he factored the decimal, But proved that his asset was infinitesimal. Thursday I titillated a titan of cardio, A beautifully sculpted, oblivious Mario. He brought a chaotic, kinetic vitality That ended in absolute, swift inactuality. I also arranged a barista with bangs Who spoke of his "process" in tedious slang. He was cute, but then tried to undo my zipper And tore at my dress like a teenage Jack the Ripper. To finish the evening, a boy out of Venice Whose stroke was akin to a novice at tennis. He rowed me through with Guido persistence; I lay on my back and offered no resistance. Oh yes, I sampled a terrified busboy Who proved quite amazing at using my sex toys, Except he inserted them not where they typically go. He's now my favorite gay. That's right boys.. I later saw Kevin, the intern at Merrill Lynch, Who measures his worth but entirely not by the inch. He sent me a LinkedIn request when we were through To "circle back" and "touch base" on what he should do. Lance watered my ferns with a rigid devotion But couldn't sync up with my waterbed's motion. He asked for a mirror to watch his own pectorals flex While providing a stellar example of "No-Contact Sex." That evening I fronted a surfer from Malibu Who stared at my flesh like a starving young caribou. He paddled the mattress, completely un-radical; I placed him on permanent, silent sabbatical. The lifeguard I spotted at the community pool And dragged him away like a truant from school. The mechanic, the baker, the patio-tiller: One checked my pistons, one glazed my buns, one dug until I'd had my fill, sir. On Friday, the Miller twins from some Delta Tau Who haven't quite mastered the when or the where or the how: A twin-pack of failure in matching, blond ambition, Who lacked even basic, entry-level sexual intuition. Another day brought me a confident med-student Who realized his actions were wholly imprudent. He searched for my pulse with a clinical gravity And utterly bypassed the relevant cavity. Late night brought a terrified child of the internet Who broke out at once in a terrified winter sweat. He packed up his denim, his sneakers, and nicotine; I scrubbed down the mattress until it was squeaky clean. On Sunday I summoned a kid with a saxophone Who sounded exactly like someone on a cracked cell phone. He played a few notes that were flat and repetitive; I handed him over a horse-level sedative. There was the waiter who forgot to bring the spoon: He was nineteen, nervous, and he popped the cork too soon, But oh, the recovery time! The biological grace: Ten minutes, a Gatorade, and back in the race. I had a scooter boy, barely eighteen. We did it in the pantry, by the washing machine: He was spinning cycle, he was rinse and repeat, He tasted like Monster Energy and unwashed feet (deliscious!). Then came a Mormon, knocking door-to-door; He'd never seen a woman in a negligee before. He was trembling, terrified, and polite: We broke three commandments and a headboard that night. I'm the Dean of Admissions in the School of sin: Wipe your, you know what, boys, and stick it in. To be eaten. To be swallowed. To be spit out whole. (I sure did.)
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