Hiding underneath a hood,
In the folds of flesh and hair,
Is the long, meaty center of my existence (my existence?)
A touch or two,
With a finger or a few.
A vibrating wonderment.
A personal lubricant.
A self-loving preservation,
An unwelcomed molestation.
This is what clitoris,
My clit-or-is,
Has seen,
And continues to see
And be satisfied,
While plagued with memories of a dark room,
And a heavy hand.
But this clit, my clit-or-is, is just fine,
As long as dick (my Dick) is there.

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