the lightweight

s/he’s one of those that giggles

when the talk of porn, raunch, whips,

chains, wax, electrocution, d****s,

f*****g machines of all shapes &

colors, butt plugs & clothes pins,

paddles & orgasm producing

toys of all sorts,

is brought out into the open

(and the uncomfortable tone in

his/her laugh, is one that announces

to the other occupants of the room

just how curious s/he is & just how

bad s/he wants to know)---

s/he’s the type of adult who acts like

they never left the sandbox,

the kind that thinks his/her “god”

is always watching,

especially when

s/he’s going at himself/herself in the

dark, hoping that someday, something

sexually exciting,

will ever,

ever, ever,

ever, ever,

ever, ever,

ever, ever,

ever, ever,

happen again.

 

for what reason the lightweight

hides his/her true need

(as if there will be a s & m parlor in the

“afterlife,” where

s/he’ll be able to be stretched to the

brink, then

drilled, prodded, burned, shocked,

beat, slapped, pinched, cut, fingered,

fucked, pricked, splashed &

pushed to all extremes),

no one knows,

but inside is a fuse that’s been lit &

every time s/he comes in contact with

what temptation has tried to lure him/her

in with, for so long,

is one moment closer to that

cataclysmic explosion,

whose acts will probably,

inevitably,

kill

the

lightweight.