In the Late Spring of ‘96

 

I was fumbling blindly, in the back

Seat of your father’s old Datsun

Hatchback, desperately trying to untether

Your boobs from their lacy binding,

Mouths wet and searching, they met

And passed on, hands and fingers

Quest and prod, but your chastity

Will remain intact, you say, “No,

No home runs allowed,” not until

The hours beyond your wedding,

But my dick is hard, baby, and needs

To go somewhere – in these morally lax

And ever-changing times – does

Third base include anal yet?

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