So, you want to fuck Paris Hilton

So, you say that you want to fuck Paris Hilton
because her limbs are so long,

you want to stretch her, pull her up
by her knees until you're so far inside of her
that she's screaming your name.

You want to suck the noise from her teeth,
deeper,
deeper,

you say that you would love to fuck Paris Hilton
because, you say, that she needs a good fuck.
Pour your burning flesh over her
until she's nothing at all.

Fuck her, while her arms cross your neck
like a crucifix; one of those summer kisses,
the way her breasts remind you of a lonesome
thirteen year old girl, small and budding as though
she had swallowed two tiny pin pricks, and
they sprouted.

You want to fuck her, so your fingers can twitch
and curl across dark pink nipples. Plow your hands
over her. Tuck cold fingers underneath her kneecaps
to feel the warm wetness of her slight sweat.

Clean her with your tongue.

So, you say that you want to fuck Paris Hilton
because her limbs are so long. Because her nose
is a little crooked. Because her tits are delicate.
Because she's rich. Rich bitch, you want to take
her for a ride.

Show her, what a guy in a black hoodie from the
rainy state of Washington can do to her. Show her
that she's not as bad ass as she thinks she is.

You want her, to want to take her clothes off for you.
Pull them free, from skin - lace braw (you fantasize) and,
the satin panties. You want it all, inside your dream
of fucking Paris Hilton raw.

At night, in the dark, you ride her.
Put your hand over her mouth so daddy wont
hear the way you make her scream, but
as you pump your pulp ever deeper a slight
smile scissors itself across your face: you think,
love is fucked up, like the shape of her limbs,
so long, and tight. You just can't take the sight of her.
You think: fucking has always been enough;

then go ahead baby,
fuck that girl ruff.