a penis of her own, her Johnson, her Peter.
She'd find a new name better than the 477
others.  She wants her own penis like
she wants her own rooms she can keep

neat or sloppy, squirt with perfume or
let glisten with musk and sweat.  It's great
to be in other lovers' bones, feeling
what they've got move inside her.  But

today she wants a tower of flesh from
her own flesh.  She wants to be God,
at least Adam, move with it coiled
between her legs, comfortable as an

old worn bathrobe.  She doesn't
want to shave her legs high, wash
chocolate off her lips or have anyone
rub it all over her nipples.  Doesn't

want anybody else's stubble rubbing any
part of her pale silk skin raw,
doesn't want fingers or tongues exploring
every crack, doesn't want to have to

pretend, or have him bitch that she's
talking about something that isn't him, eating
m & m's or that she's gained ten
pounds or her titties are too

little.  A dick for a day might get addictive,
true, but today she's too busy, burned
out to try to get what's soft into a
hard missile, her lips and mouth tired, her

fingers all cramps from what doesn't work
and she's not up for his bitching when
we first and his how come you don't shake
that ass those little legs like you did before.