To an Unchaste Man whose chase I chanced,
                    embracing his untamed command of a sinful little language no one else,
                    before or since,
                    has spoken so well or better handled,
                    or can,
                    and for those of you,
                    my fellow hellions,
                    who understand—

                                        i. Abstract

Dots incise the Is of my heart when doubts arise,
with a sigh,
from my darkness’s deepest part.

                                        ii. Methods

Your voice like molten honey lining a fractured bowl,
its cursive chorus of trilled Rs and whiplashes of whispers
                                        spilling immoral words,
torturing to tingle all of my hole’s nerves,
filling its O with verbs,
gliding over your gums,
melting on your tongue spittle dripped like wax sealing a scroll,
this kiss of ours holding in what any other lover’s lips would waste on saying,
four little letters you make me work for,
your tasting of my inner sanctum tickling my soul,
taking from this body’s temple its treasure you con to coming
                                        with an offer more tempting than salvation,
semiotics conquering linguistics,
fingers tracing explicit symbols convincing me to give in and give up control,
tossing me into ecstasy’s throes,
damnation curling toes as you pen an ode with each flick,
exchanging L for F as I beg U to give it your all,
more of a kick,
tired of waiting,
wailing,

                    ‘I dig how you lick,
                    now let’s see how you fuck!’

                                        iii. Results

And when you’re done,
after that abrupt final thrust,
as I’m cleaning you up,
I want to take in my mouth what praise you painted on my pink
                                        before filling it with your ink,
this verse my version of a wink,
some obscene thing I’ve scrawled,
something indecent you can open then toss,
an ego-stroking secret giving you thanks,
because no matter who else hires me,
you’re still the boss.

__________
Notate Bene:
☞ The title is taken from Athenæus of Naucratis, spoken by the Cynic philosopher Theodorus, nicknamed Cynulcus, in his eclectic dialogue-cum-cookbook (history’s earliest, in fact), Deipnosophistæ. Translated from the Ancient Greek by Charles Burton Gulick as The Deipnosophists in Seven Volumes: Volume VI, Book XIII, “Concerning Women”, lines 567c–d: “And many dramas, besides, you shameless one, have taken their titles from prostitutes: [such as] Clepsydra by Eubulus. Now this last prostitute got her name because she timed her favours by the water-clock, stopping when it was emptied, as Asclepiades, the son of Areius, records in his History of Demetrius of Phalerum, alleging that her real name was Metichê[,]” and published at Cambridge, Massachusetts by Harvard University Press in 1959; page 65. Its editio princeps was brought out by Marcus Musurus as Athenæi Deipnosophistarum libri XV, published at Venice by the Aldine Press of Aldus Manutius the Elder in 1514.
☞ A clepsydra, or “water-thief” (from the Ancient Greek kleptein, “to steal”, and hydor, “water”), reputed to have been developed in Athenian brothels, measured time by punctured bowls floated in jugs of water; once the bowls had filled and sunk, a client’s transaction was ended.