Friday, April 19, 2013

Damaged Man Seeking Woman for Rock-Bottom


Damaged Man Seeking Woman for Rock-Bottom

Broken-hearted, passive-aggressive, possessive,
selfish, psychologically-damaged 28-year-old
who will never again allow himself
to love another heartless, cruel woman
seeking a heartlessly sensual,
cruelly sexy woman who knows how
to read between the soon-to-be
sweat-soaked linens.

Sure, we’ll keep the conversation light,
socially-acceptable, and topical, provided
that the implicit understanding is that
the evening will end with
some form of
physical stimulus and satisfaction.

This is the absurd dance that
your gender forces us
to endure, isn’t it?
Frankly, I resent having to
beat around the bush about these things.

(BTW: shaving is preferred.)

We’ll laugh at each other’s unfunny jokes and
innocently touch one another’s hands,
wrists, and forearms,
dare I say, we might even drop
a few naughty
double-entendres, right?
Oh the shame!

Whatever, lady.

As long as we end up at your place,
my place,
 a remote freeway underpass,
or an empty, poorly-lit
warehouse parking lot after hours
with my mouth on yours,
your mouth on my neglected stamen,
my mouth on your fickle honeypot,
or some combination of our naughty-bits
squished together in a Picasso of shame,
I’ll play whatever charming role you see fit
and will gladly skip to your Lou,
just be sure to open wide for mine

(BTW: fellatio puns are encouraged;)
(fellatio itself is a requirement)

Now, I don’t want to be so crass
as to suggest some sort of
“fuck-buddy” situation,
but sadly,
my current level of emotional commitment
will not rise beyond the considerable height
of my abandoned member.

Yes, I’m well-endowed,
if you care about that sort of thing.
Well of course you do,
you’re just like any other heartless woman,
indiscriminately buzzing from one giant,
throbbing, engorged stamen
to another like some kind of tawdry,
slutty, Americanized bee.

You sicken me!
I want you so bad.

You can be single, widowed,
affianced, or happily married-but-looking,
as I am too emotionally-flatlined
and excessively sexually frustrated
to concern myself with your trivial moral dilemmas.
Spare me your personal guilt
and bring a six-pack of premium lager for later.
Gatorade and an extra pair of panties are optional,
but recommended.

Intelligence is unnecessary, but encouraged,  
as long as we establish some form of sexual attraction.
I am of the rare breed that attributes more value
to a sexy mind than physical attributes,
though physical beauty is also a plus.
I’m a solid “seven” on that clichéd scale
I will gratefully accept other “sevens” or greater,
but if you are a “six”,
you’d better be either a philosopher
or a phone-sex operator.
Nobody likes to settle, not even on Craigslist.

Airheads are not desirable,
but if you’re hot, you will be most welcomed
to try a few positions,
as long as you don’t say anything so moronic
that I’m rendered slack-jawed
and flaccid from your sensational idiocy.

Suggested peripheral activities may include
dining at mid-level to sensibly-upscale restaurants;
we’re not talking Denny’s or Sizzler,
but Applebee’s and Outback Steakhouse are on the short list.
Do not suggest Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse,
or anything with the word “Bistro” in the title
unless you’re Halle Berry or Beyoncé,
otherwise, I’ll need to see references of
your superior sexual prowess, up-front.

(Seriously, I’m not cheap, but that’s a lot of money.)

Only serious inquiries, please
If I wanted to be jerked around, I’d, uhm…
Oh yeah! I totally forgot that I could do that!

Never mind, the position’s been filled for tonight.



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