The Lightweight

s/he’s one of those that giggles when the talk of ****, raunch, whips, chains, wax, electrocution, dildos, ****ing machines of all shapes & colors, butt plugs & clothes pins, paddles & ****** producing toys of all sorts, is brought out into the open (and the uncomfortable tone in his/her laugh, is one that announces to the other occupants of the room just how curious s/he is & just how bad s/he wants to know)--- s/he’s the type of adult who acts like they never left the sandbox, the kind that thinks his/her “god” is always watching, especially when s/he’s going at himself/herself in the dark, hoping that someday, something sexually exciting, will ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, happen again. for what reason the lightweight hides his/her true need (as if there will be a s & m parlor in the “afterlife,” where s/he’ll be able to be stretched to the brink, then drilled, prodded, burned, shocked, beat, slapped, pinched, cut, fingered, ****ed, pricked, splashed & pushed to all extremes), no one knows, but inside is a fuse that’s been lit & every time s/he comes in contact with what temptation has tried to lure him/her in with, for so long, is one moment closer to that cataclysmic explosion, whose acts will probably, inevitably, kill the lightweight.