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 pleasure me with
                         first-class, twenty-four karat
                         fellatio, 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 to 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.  Drop the mask
                         of maladjusted masculinity for an
                         honest night of forever love.  Talk
                         in the morning. 
                         But I don't have the time for that
                         crap, 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.  Baby... you want ME.