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REAL TIME CLICKS

Years ago when he first dialed phonesex inc. he fitted a condom over the earpiece.
But he no longer dials, for it's now the post rotary generation,
no more poking fingers into holes and twisting.
He stopped cruising red-light districts.
Now there=s cybersex,
no sweat, no pimples, no pimps, no odors, no bad attitudes,
and best of all no weird things swimming in his blood.
The messy tangible yields to the antiseptic virtual.
He just right clicks and dropdown menus list all his lusts
and ones he's yet to discover.
Wet dreams are correctly interfaced at x bucks per month.
Will she or won=t she? Will he or won't he?
Will he with she? she with he? he with he? she with she?
Will all with whomever?
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, Yes ad nauseam.
Yes, the whole shebang is willing if the Paypal account is good.
No more real time searching for that eternal clicking together,
for the odds today are fifty/fifty
that the delete key will eventually be pressed.
But if he is sated,
or for some other god-only knows reason
then his childhood hell-and-damnation Sunday school preacher,
that killjoy demon,
might suddenly manifest himself on the screen,
commanding him to follow the straight and narrow.
And so chastised he clicks his mouse repentantly,
not on the immoral left side but on the right,
to quit such midnight fantasies
at least until he boots up yet again
to lick the long leather footwear of Lady Buttslap Stern.


  Richard Fein