The Santa Cruz hills. Visiting a friend.
Mansion in the redwoods, up a dead-end
court. Beyond, a house half-done; a small
tractor and grader howl and crawl--
the brother and sister driving wave "Hi."
Do-it-yourselfers. She's hot! But no chance
to talk now--my host leads me high
up to a guest room, and next thing that I
know, my bare legs and ass floppy-dance
out the second-floor windowsill! Why?
Well, sex. Doggie style, with a giant plush
doggie. Out the bay-window sill, asprawl,
heads in, tails out. Her cunt is tight,
warm, slick--but indifferent. No
muscular answer. Need that. Although
some real girls lack it--spooky Beryl,
before her death; and gloomy Cheryl--
and I've frankensteined Foam Furs who push
back eager as flesh. So it's not fake fur
or foam muscles; this particular plush
is wrong for me. Or it's not even her
but our silly position. I crave satisfaction
butt doggie-in-the-window sex lacks traction.
Or is it that Backhoe Girl is ogling my
tail ineptly doggie-doing on and on?
But this is Santa Cruz! Hippie heartland. By
regional pervert standards, I rate just a yawn.
