The Type

I wish I was the type
who needed moonlight, sonnets, charm,
to turn the key and make the engine run.
But cursed with curiosity
unceasing as to male form,
all that a man must ever learn
is up from down when handling a fly.

I’m the type to blush and say thank you
when flashed, or sent an unsolicited picture.
Even the ones that kill my curiosity
cannot kill it for long,
and soon the cat is wandering again,
its nine deaths no lesson.

For I’m the one on Chatroulette
who doesn’t mind it when
a forty-five-year-old called Steve
will introduce himself crotch-first...

...I think they call what I have thirst.