Learning to Drink

A bon viveur might drink me in,
As if I were as glass of wine;
Do lustrous eyes ever begin
To dazzle him? Do they refine
His taste for silent eloquence?
Does bright anticipation, which
Bewilders me when he's intense,
Allow regret? Is it too rich
A dish to sup, before he sips
Excitement with his eager zest
For kisses warming pouting lips,
As his heart beats hard in his chest?
And, if his hand reaches to clutch
Intimately, is it enough
To flutter eyelids that are such
Instigators of further rough
Investigations, amongst the silk
And satin fabric of my dress
Or underneath, where he would milk
My soft, wet centre - such a mess:
What should an ingenue now think,
Save that a bon viveur must drink?