You surely knew, when murmuring to me,
Of your luncheon in a pink silk dress –
And what you might not wear beneath it –
There, in your imaginary Paris,
Among big men and the affairs of state,
The feelings your alluring hints would stir.
With that soft stroke, run like a poet’s hand
Over your still firm and nubile breasts,
You plunged my primal brain into a frenzy,
So that the poet’s hand was seized upon
By tropes remembered from Anais Nin,
And drawn towards that most diaphanous dress.
How did you accomplish this in innocence?
Surely, as with the sending of those songs,
Like ‘You can leave your hat on’ – meaning
Never mind the rest, except stilettos –
Or, earlier, those ‘Bette Davis eyes’
Cast upon me, saying ‘You are mine!’
We’d only just been talking Oliver Sacks
And how your deft, chameleon evasions
Tantalize the analyst in me;
You’d just exclaimed, in your so ravishing voice,
How very much you actually love his work,
When there alighted, on my unsuspecting brain,
Like one of Nin’s disarming little birds,
Those murmured words, so delicately spoken,
‘I’m wondering what colour under wear
To put on underneath my pink silk dress.
Should I, perhaps, wear none at all?’
Oh! Instantly, I was your sexual slave!