For a woman of thirty nine,

not bad, I say to myself,

turning this way and that

to get a better look at my butt

and the contours of my profile.

I’m sturdy, but not rotund

like my bow-legged Asian friend.

My legs are shapely and strong

and could walk around the world.

My arms do an Australian crawl

from Canarsie to Brighton Beach.

My obsidian fortune-telling eyes

reveal my psychic powers.

Clairvoyant, I know how to please,

with the help of my luscious lips

and Kegel induced pelvic squeeze.

I can awaken any humdrum guy

with languid lovemaking, using

the finely tuned music of my body.

My mouth and hands sing of love

with a wild hunger that delights

more than a slam-bang ever does.

Leaping lovers would jump through

a ring of fire to tear off a piece with me.

I embrace men with a tender touch,

only found among the deaf, dumb,

and blind. More than once I’ve been

nominated for the Nobel of lovemaking.

I decline jewelry and accommodations

on luxury yachts. I’m not a whore,

just a messenger from God, the only one

who knows why I do what I do.

The very best part of my body, hidden

in the ventricles of my oversized heart,

is my soul. But I’m so lonely, I could cry.