ERASMUS
                         You know what you want.  You KNOW
                         you do.  You want the hydrocarbon
                         stink of my Harley pulling up to
                         your apartment at two a.m.  You
                         want me to spank the dirt off my
                         leather jacket, wash my mouth out
                         with Jack Daniels, and spit on
                         your front lawn.  You want me to
                         bang on your front door, shouting
                         your name, and when you answer
                         the door, confused and nervous in
                         your bathrobe, you want me to
                         glare over my Ray-Bans and say,
                         "On the back of the hog, bitch. 
                         Now."  You want to go tooling
                         with me, eighty miles an hour,
                         slicing the tight Presidio curves
                         like butter, only punching the
                         brakes at the parking lot
                         overlooking the Sutro Baths.  You
                         want me to admire the alien azure
                         moon with you, but I may or may
                         not do this.  Despite the fact
                         that you are wearing only a light
                         jacket, and you are freezing your
                         ass off, you want to say that you
                         are having a lovely time.  You
                         want me to grunt in response. 
                         You want to drop to your knees in
                         the parking lot and give me a
                         gorgeous first-class blowjob, the
                         moon glowing radioactive blue,
                         the seals howling over the waves.
                         You want me to have an orgasm, at
                         the time of my choosing.  You
                         want me make noises when I have
                         this orgasm.  But I may or may
                         not do this.  Afterwards, you
                         want to be grateful.  You want me
                         to bolt the remainder of the Jack
                         Daniels and rocket you back to
                         your pad, eighty miles an hour. 
                         You want to be suffering from
                         first-degree frostbite by the
                         time we get there.  You want me
                         to come in, make instant coffee
                         for me, get me to sleep in your
                         bed.  Hold you, touch you, make
                         you warm.  Maybe talk in the
                         morning.  But I don't have the
                         time for that bullshit, you dumb
                         bitch.  Not tonight.
                         You want to hug your thin jacket
                         around yourself in your doorway,
                         your red-rimmed eyes hopeful and
                         dreamy, as my cut-out muffler
                         rattles the neighborhood windows,
                         and I burn tire tracks into your
                         driveway.  Yeah, you know what
                         you want.  You knew it all along. 
                         Baby... you want ME.