Oh You Absolute Darling

You are sexier than anyone I’ve ever met.
You feel better to touch than anyone I’ve ever met.
You’re like a Vargas girl.
You’re not exactly a barrel of laughs
so much as a barrel of erections.
Dear Gypsy-themed Barbie doll:
those jeans will do you no good.

If I were a mosquito, I’d suck
all the blood out from you in five minutes.
If we were stranded together on a desert island,
I don’t think you’d last long.
I’d like to come over there and squeeze the living daylights out of you.
I’d like to spin you like a top
and fuck you ten different ways.
Such tender meat—raw—dropping from the bone!

You’re sex on a stick.
You’re a sex bomb.
You’re the sex symbol of our set.
And this is why you have the male friends
you think you do, why women hate you.
The last twelve years, you have no idea
how many millions of haploid gametes I’ve spilled in your honor!
How I’ve resented you for walking around
as though you were a normal person.

I’m sorry to break it to you.
Let me explain how this works: when X said
he threw away your press photo, what he meant was
it’s tacked up in his bathroom right now, for inspiration.
I think you think my attraction to you is funny.
Believe me, scared is how you should be.

You’re a basket of sexual fruits.
What kind of fruit are you?
I’d like to eat you up with my penis
but I don’t know how to do that!
You smell like peach. You smell like mango.
The way you smell drives me crazy,

the divots in your back drive me wild.
I love the scoop above your ass—your slender throat—
your little pretty limbs and princess-face—
your gorgeous rippling muscles covered
all over by this smooth, this tawny upholstery—
little doll—delicate ower—the way your ribs
stick out, it’s like a second rack—and this,
I love this: what do people call it?

You should always be naked.
You should always hold your wineglass like so.
You have what no one else has—breasts
that demand to be taken notice of
and the tiniest waist I’ve ever seen.
If your waist were any smaller, you wouldn’t exist.