Looking Past

He's looking past my pen to see my pad;
He gently takes the pages from my hand;
My head feels in the clouds and he looks glad
That I am so old fashioned; and I've planned
To spend an afternoon just writing verse
And leaving good impressions in his head;
I wonder if his perspective is worse
Than things he'd want to do on my small bed;
There really isn't much space; when he sits,
I must move over quite respectfully;
He opens my pink shutters and he fits
Himself neatly inside his debauchee;
There is an opening and, if he'll last,
Another two to take - he won't be fast...