When I look in the mirror I don’t recognize the face I see.
I ‘m sure I haven’t changed a bit since I was seventeen—still the dreamer
I remember so well, who loves the ladies as much as ever.
I drive a car with the finesse of an Indy 500 race car driver.
But when I was seventeen I had a romantic fling
that might evade me now.
She was a lusty classmate who craved intimate bouts
as often as we could have them.
The supply line for Big Gun Bertha flowed effortlessly.
Now we have to wait for regeneration.
In days gone by, when I entered her, she held me tight and wouldn’t let go.
When I drove her hither and yon, she kept her hand on my crotch,
hanging on to my one-eyed friend as if it was a stick-shift car,
even though it was fully automatic.