"Possession."

The word is an abomination to feminists.
Spoken, the syllibants stain the tongue -
a metal zipper pinched along the scrotum
of collective morality. Thought, however,
the pear-shaped cadence conjures erotic
fantasies unhindered by decency.

[ Fingers roped in soot curls. Palms skidding 'cross
sweat-mirrored topography. Want. Need. Take. Have. ]

Whose predatory charisma mirrors my
own? Whose libidinous fortitude extends
to the pursuit of both power and pleasure?

You can bet your sweet soul that it's not
that sweet-faced boy about town with the candy
button eyes and Spandex spidersuit. Clearly it's
not the all-American boy-next-door, his words
tumbling like so many daisies from Botox-perfect
TV lips. And most certainly it's not the Prom King,
for that crown corrodes with the collection of so
many crocodile tears.

No, I fear those lads won't do at all.
I fear it takes a certain degree of
something special to storm this
bastion of carnal delights.

I want a villain.

If you want to set a girl's thighs aflame,
land yourself a Y-chromosome with some umph!
Suave. Charismatic. Affluent. Influential.

[ Pulse a thready tarantella, nails raking the soil of a man's
back - her own crops laid for harvest. Want. Need. Take. Have. ]

Dangerous. Manipulative. Obsessive. Fierce.
He's a sinner, having tumbled from grace, the
soft down of a penthouse in NYC there to break
his fall. He is contusive to madness. Motivated
to vengeance. Palatable to the thrall of power.

Villains act.
Heroes react.
Active evil is far
better than passive good.

So go ahead, coddle your pretty-boy
superhero. Dwell in suburbia and
become that pretty little housewife
in apron and manacles. Build your
little garden and surround it with
a white picket fence - like some
jagged orthodontia. Breed fuel
for the middle-market economy.

As for me, I'll have my heart
and legs wrapped 'round a conundrum.

Want. Need. Take. Have.