To hold a woman is to hold the weight of humanity’s sins. 

And like a sinner desperate for forgiveness, how beautifully, easily led they are. 

Their faces just before are what I yearn for.  

Giggles, whispers, and the “oh baby, take it slow.”  

Liquify that frozen terror, 

—that bare-breasted feminine defense mechanism— 

And shoot it right into my veins. 

Bliss in the form of the possum beneath me, 

Playing dead. 

Some of them cry. 

Most can’t for at least a few days after.  

And they don’t fight, 

Because they know they can’t win. 

But the real high, 

—that soaring, orgasmic joy— 

Comes when the phone rings. 

Back again. 

After all, 

A wise woman once said, 

            “Rape is a crime of control.”