It’s Not the Heat

MILF Lullaby (with apologies to Tom Lehrer)

Summer holds its breath.
Your kids are away at camp
and your husband gone to Nawlins,
living high on the muffaletta,
attending seminars by steamy day
and just maybe dipping his dangle
into cool bayou temptation by night.
No harm, no foul.
It's just the way the Hurricane blows.
We're in Sondheim territory
and the mirror reflects us, reflecting.

Summer smiles knowingly.
And while we're on temptation,
you've been dipping as well.
Oh, sure. You hesitate now at the opportunity.
Coast clear, your online Don Juan
can finally come to town.
Don't answer his email.
Don't accept his chat.
All innocent advances
are anything but
and inevitably lead
to parking lot quickies and
weekends long with
hubris and hummers.
paddles and pasta salad.

Ah, but this is exactly what you want.
You honestly, passionately want to
scrape bottom, plumb depths of delight
in borrowed fuck-me pumps.
You ache to kiss with hunger,
pretend you-re starved.
be an upper middle class passion's plaything —
your breasts by Brio,
your Bionicle butt held firm and high.

And so you say yes.
And so you go to the airport.
And so you wait in Baggage Claim —
emotionally open, physically scared,
suddenly aware that crotchless panties
don't soak up any of this trickle,
this drip, this river, this flood down your thigh
that surely everyone sees.

But is it really any wonder you're excited?
You've given yourself permission to be
a stranger with this stranger.
It won't be the you from work
with his cock in your ass.
It won't be the you from home,
tied to the bed,
spread wide and on display.
It won't be the PTO you
whose hair gets pulled
ass spanked,
nipples twisted red
pussy sucked and nibbled
until you cry out his name
that may not even be his name.

Summer leads us astray.
And the you that isn't you
has a smile on her face
that you can see in the mirror
as your husband's taxi
brushes the curb.

# # # # #


Hear this poem read aloud...

Comments:

• oh you knew your voice would bring me back…  I love it. Thank you for the blush on my cheeks this morning

  Posted by Blue  on  07/22/05  at  09:25 AM
  
  

• I love your poem and how you read it.  The way you read the “it won’t be” pieces is very dramatic and erotic sounding.  I absolutely love it. More, more, please more of these!  Bravo Prospero!

  The poem does bring up some interesting thoughts and questions for those on the Internet. (Oh God, I guess I am an Internet person, never did I think I would be).  My first thought is, be careful what you ask for.  And a question that comes to mind that people should think about is if this is REALLY what they want.

  Posted by Lucretia  on  07/22/05  at  09:44 AM
  
  

• I’m glad you both liked the poem and the reading. The reading is part of my unofficial poet’s outreach program to all of you who suffered through poetry explication in school. If you could read the poem the way I mean for you to read it, it might not seem so… ugh, like a poem.

  As for the topic, I’m not taking sides. And I don’t know if anyone actually got hurt in this poem. The husband may not have been fooling around on his business trip. The wife may never do this again. There’s something she isn’t getting and she has to find out what it is. Where it goes from here… I don’t know. I don’t think it’s a warning. It’s just a slice of life as I imagine in might be.

  Posted by Prospero  on  07/22/05  at  10:00 AM
  
  

• Here’s to you, Mrs Robinson…

  Posted by JeN  on  07/29/05  at  12:31 PM
  
  

• Hmm, I see a little bit of myself in there. Coincidence? Except I wish I had a husband to cheat on. And my panties weren’t crotchless… to begin with.

  “hubris and hummers.  paddles and pasta salad.”  Nice.

  Fuck On Prospero!

  c.p.

  Posted by curiouspussy  on  07/31/05  at  12:27 AM
  
  

• It IS coincidence, cp! Though I have to admit I thought of this poem as soon as you posted the first of your two recent airport-related posts. No one really has crotchless panties. I think it must have been a metaphor.

  Posted by Prospero  on  08/01/05  at  12:24 AM
  
  

• I confess that when I read the last stanza, I thought that it was a surprise ending and the husband was in fact the online Don Juan.  I must have listened to the Piña Colada song one too many times in my youth.

  Posted by Speechless  on  03/05/10  at  05:11 PM
  
  
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