Porn

My boyfriend has informed me That I don’t know what irony is Because I make bad jokes That don’t make sense to anybody but me. Sometimes, not even me. He has informed me that my poetry Is full of nature And that is ironic Because I don’t go outside. It’s too hot out there, It’s too buggy out there, But inside I write poems About the sun I don’t bask in And the seas I don’t bathe in And the virgin snow I’ve seen maybe once In a freak storm When we had twelve inches on our porch And all I thought about was getting laid. I think about getting laid a lot. When I am and when I’m not And what code words I can use So I can write about it in my journal. I scribble letters on the corners of my pages, Tattoo sex into the history of my life Because I’m eighteen years old And I’ll be damned if I’m not going to document Getting a good shake-down. Break it down into a play-by-play. I make **** in my head Because it’s blocked on my phone And at least then I can star in it. I practice with myself. Sometimes I even love myself- Until it gets weird, Then I quit and watch Doctor Who, Which is basically **** for my brain. A few weeks ago, I went into a lingerie shop And would have bought a vibrator If I’d had more cash. I don’t understand why sex toys Are so much more expensive than boys. I thought their purpose was replacement. It seems stupid to pay forty dollars for a toy When I can get a guy for free. Or occasionally a burger and fries, Which definitely isn’t going to cost me forty bucks. Maybe fifteen, if I’m feeling really frisky. Even so, I was needy, And if I hadn’t had only a twenty dollar bill And my mom’s credit card, I wouldn’t be writing this poem Because I’d be in bed, With myself, Rediscovering why people like poems about sex.