Dreams and Dirty Magazines

You look at me, past me,
and I know that, for you,
I’m not there.
You have visions of goddesses
dancing past your eyes,
and who am I to dispel
such a wonderful dream?

I know that I can’t compare
to the come-hither angels
that loll seductively
on the glossy pages of your
not-so-secret fantasy.
After all, I’ve never had sex
in the back of a taxi
with the meter running,
never done anything in a threesome
(except maybe go to a movie
or split a pizza…),
and no, I’ve never ridden the bull
in just a g-string and a smile.
But oh, honey, I’m here to tell you,
neither have they…

I do have arms
to hold you
and hips
that swish,
warm breath
to whisper your name
and lips
to make your world explode,
but I can see why
you wouldn’t want that.

You’ve got a thousand dead-eyed vixens
to pout at you from 2-D heaven,
their “perfect” figures trapped forever
in the shiny sheets of your rag
through the magic of air-brushing
and the right lens filter.

You can always let me know
when your bed gets too cold
and your hand gets tired.
Only thing is…

I can’t promise to be waiting.