Why Again?

She had wanted me,
there was no pretense
on her veneered face.
She had lain her flushed
body on my couch, and
despite the blaring view of
her globes piercing
my sexual eye the only
thing I could ponder
was if she was mussing
the velvet cushion with her
moisture.

Never mind the fact that
all of my erogenous zones
perked up, that a soldier was
saluting his captain or that
headlights were in my doe eyes,
her juices were on my very expensive,
not that it mattered mind you,
but very expensive
couch cushion.

When she turned and crooked
an inviting finger at me I stood
still, resisting the worm on her hook
still thinking of the last time this
happened and the awful ordeal
with the Vietnamese woman
at the dry cleaners.