Since you are the professor of blushes and read
mine with such confidence, can you live
with what you publish? Isn't your thesis your need:
outlining such pleasure as my fingers give,
or my tongue, making ripples on your breast,
or our lips meeting ever so sensuously?
If you would expose in me the Freudian beast,
does not your own mind mount the satyr to be
ravished? To this text surely you bring
great scholarship. Study and broad research
seasons judgment. But if these imputations ring
true, there is between us some untold urge.
My face is a book containing your coy intent.
Who then is bawdy and who is innocent?