Curmudgeon Armageddon:The New Notes of a Dirty Old Man in the Body of a Young One

Unseasonable May heat permeates the apartment, 

traces of light breeze tease relief while my woman sleeps. 

She's dead tired, dead to the world, and the oppressive warmth 

outside keeps me up. Laying in bed, trying to close my eyes 

while my body aches, but the mind races formula-1 swift. 

Most males who've gone through puberty 

and have some hair on their chest 

will tell you what the holistic alternative 

to Ambien is-- bating, jerking, jacking. Off, 

I gently shuffle out of bed and into the den. 

Not of inequity but my living room 

and what some call the rumpus room, 

which is a bawdy expression if there ever was one. 

The 'Net is logged onto and logged into is a site 

where women pay for college or a mortgage by stripping 

and baiting, jerking, jacking in the comfort and sovereign safety 

of their own rooms. Watching for free, lurking as the cyber-voyeur, 

I spy a Canuck of indigenous decent squirming around 

in a wet v-neck in the bath. After about 15 minutes, she gets out 

and lubricates her body with lotion and at that point, it's on. 

Her somewhat almond eyes are that of a female deer's, hair 

black like a raven's feathers, and her flesh is the color of buckskin. 

Am I eroticizing her? What else would I be doing at a moment like this? 

She places the white cream in cleverly chosen erogenous zones 

and massages it in until it becomes a part of her. With each of her kneads, 

my needs are being met, The imagined wetness and moisture propel 

my self-strangulation. My pace is that of a jockey's steed's gallup 

as it nears the finish line in the lead and just as the win is imminent, 

a student emails me at a quarter 'til 2 in the morning
and the notification flashes on my screen not ignorable 

and at what should be the blissful instant of release, their face is all I see. 

Finished and slightly disgusted, cleanup happens and this is written. 

Talk about anti-climactic.