backseat, fumbling with her bra
trying to unhook the damn thing
fumble-fingers
that first time, soon to be
more than adept
one-handed and cool, man, cool

learning of lust
don’t let it rust

her hand on you, stroking
until you thought you’d explode
lowered her head
soft, warm mouth
my, my, my
she wants to know if you’ll respect her tomorrow

hell yes he will
he knows the drill

walking tall now
measure of a man
life has been simplified
will take years of tall walking
and falling off mountain tops
before he secretly thinks

women are weird
some to be feared

seems the female brain
comes through the birth canal
warped
to say the least
like to keep the opposite sex
off balance, wobbly, confused

what she will do
will make him blue

they can soar with him to the clouds
tender touches here and there
hot summer days
sweaty bodies slithering in the bed
her heat burns through his soul
passion uncontrolled

he thought he knew
of love’s construe

fervor can be snatched
like pennies from a dead man’s eyes
sometimes just as wicked
bad . . . femme fatales
meaning hurtful
in the head

women are mean
Jezebel queens

ah, yes, but don’t she look nice
in her Sunday dress
standing there with her long legs wide apart
sun streaming between
licking those Julia Roberts’ lips
damn, you’d follow her off a rocky cliff

women are like
a gold rush strike

©Jerry Pat Bolton