There you go again–flaunting that perfect fucking couloir between your legs.

You think I don’t notice the tops of your thighs when you wear that skirt? You think my eyes don’t wander and my cock don’t wonder what color, what fabric, what thong or hipsters or boyshorts or slutty g-string is rubbing against your lips? What is it, sugar? What’s covering up that narrow ravine, just waiting for my fingers to slip under and over so I can pull ‘em aside?

Call it the vault at motherfucking Fort Knox. Or Black Iris by O’Keefe. Goddamn did she know a thing or two about pussy and I’m her finest fucking student. Tell one of these yonic artists to cast your perfect vulva and hang it next to The Death of Socrates at the Met. Yeah, I know the difference between the vulva and vagina. Let’s call that progress, sweet thing.

And with knowledge like this, god, we’ll be lucky if those old-world fanatics don’t burn me at the stake. How dare I think a lovely little slut like you should cum too. Well, let ‘em come knocking. Me and Socrates–brothers in spirit. Put it as an epitaph on my headstone, “Here lies a dude persecuted for loving pussy too damn much.”

It ain’t like you’re a saint. Nope. You’re the type of girl to walk into the candy shop and come out with a lollipop. The type that lets a melting popsicle stain your cool, freckled skin on a hot summer day. Tee-fucking-hee. Babe, you may be pretty, but you sure ain’t dumb. You know exactly what you’re doing to me. Do I mind? Not one fucking bit. I know your type. I know I won’t be seeing you in the morning–not in the holy dawn of Sunday. You’ll be up early, putting on your ruffled floral dress get off to confession. Got a lot to get off your chest today, dontcha?

Really, though? Who says you’ve got a place to be? Got a man to get back to?

Ask me if I care.

Baby, I’m just as bad as you, so why shouldn’t we be bad together? We could lie here wrapped in these linen sheets soaked with our sweat and your juices and close out the day. Anyway, that fuckwit probably doesn’t know your ass from your elbow or your clit from your tit. But lemme at it. Two fingers inside and a tongue pressed flat against your little nub. All that blood’ll rush straight below, making you ruby red against my chin.

Just lay back and let me part your legs like the Red Sea. Push my vessel through and then close in to wrap me in your undulating walls. Yeah, buttercup, send me straight to Hell. God knows I deserve it for screwing around with a girl like you.

Sure, I said it. What? Are you insulted? Don’t give me that bullshit. Don’t pretend to be all proud and prudent. You ain’t no church mouse–not with the way you were screaming last night. Nope. Ain’t no lady, so I’m not about to treat you like one.

Honey, I know I’m vulgar and sinful and rude. But I’ve been cast outta Eden for far too long. I keep wandering these cold, marble halls when all I want is to return to the fold, to tie you to a chair, to spread your legs, and draw out that sweet, desperate moan that tingles the corners of your mouth and sends chills up my spine. Let’s hear you take the Lord’s name in vain. Let’s hear that tittering tongue devolve into a gush of profanities. Let’s close the door, cast aside our clothes, and sink into the wet rhythm of indiscretion.

Is that so much to ask? Am I wrong here? When I come knockin’ on the garden’s gates, won’t you let me back in?