My Problem with Jane*

I like Titian…
And Botticelli…

I love their women’s eyes…
Lips…
Breasts…
Hair…
Expressions…
Positions…
Postures…

Perhaps even their aromas…
And tastes…
As they form in my mind…
Inspired by said images…

Imagining their jokes…
Movements…
Sounds…
Sexual techniques…

But I wouldn’t want to see their X-rays…
Or intestines…

I’m happy to know how bodies work…
The bones…
Fluids…
Sinews…

But I don’t need to,
Indeed, don’t want to,
See them of every woman,
I’m attracted to…

Skin serves a great purpose!
Not only for its possessor,
But also for its admirer,
Assessor…

Same with feelings…
And ideas…

I don’t need to,
Indeed, don’t want to,
See,
Or know,
All the inner intestines,
And structures,
And bowel movements,
Of every girl-I-wanna-fuck’s thoughts,
And emotions…

I like intellectual,
And emotional,
Skin!

And Jane is primarily little-girl intestines,
Without enough skin!

‘Should I do this,
Or should I do that?
But if I do this,
He’ll think that,
And then she’ll think this,
So perhaps I should do that,
Or maybe this…?’

(I, too, write my own intestines,
And micro-particles,
For the world to see…
And I would never blame anyone,
Male or female,
For wanting to look the other way,
In search of some big-boy skin…)

*After refusing to talk about Jane Austen for two hours in exchange for a blowjob and some ass-licking.