So now I reached the age of full consent.
My tongue at last can flutter on some clit —
her mouth a scabbard for my sword (her scent
will make me drunk with love, I must admit).
Until that day, the numbers don’t perform
to make that “three-six-oh” degree design.
But when it comes, there’ll be a thunderstorm
and on each other’s love-juice we will dine.
For cunnilingus is no common word.
Fellatio is equally obtuse.
Now, one year short of seven-oh, I’m stirred
to find some willing darling to seduce.
The time to make those body-parts align
is surely at the age of sixty-nine!
© Alan Morrison, 2018