To the guy who whistled,
the guy who whooted,
and the guy who nearly caused a traffic accident:
When I walk up on stage with my
and meeting certain criteria of shape and dress and perceived hygienic efforts,
And when I start with a line that could include people with your genitals
in my roster of people I might sleep with,
Well I have a faux-hawk of pubic hair and a fine coat of fur all the way to my toes,
are you still cheering?
I don’t own any wire and lace contraptions to push up my secondary sex characteristics ,
and I don’t slather my skin in pear and lilac scented carcinogens to hide my nervous perspirations,
are you still whistling?
And the thing about my genitals is they BLEED
gooey, mucousy, coppery, life-giving blood.
And I don’t soak it up with plastic in secret and bury it in the garbage can,
nor will you hear me say at night that I’m not in the mood or how about a…
‘Cause this shit is precious plant fertilizer
and I’m into permaculture.
And I am in the mood,
but don’t worry,
I’ll have a towel for your beard afterwards.
if you still want to whistle when I walk up here,
if you’re into pubic faux-hawks and pheromones and you’re feeling a little low on iron,
meet me in the bathroom,
I’ll bring the towel,
you bring the comic books,
’cause I like to read after.
uh, should I do that?