I’m in Love with Hustler Magazine’s Honey of the Month, March 1995

The way you spread your
pussy lips and lift
your right breast to
lick your nipple like
an autoerotic slut
makes me love you
that much more.
When a woman looks
as wet and hot as you
there's no need for
poise, elegance, class,
the ability to speak
seven languages fluently,
and an understanding of
the dynamic involved in the transition
from early Renaissance to Baroque art.
Next to you the subtle beauty
of a Vogue fashion model
looking off toward the horizons
of some distant city
as she takes a drag
from a Dunhill cigarette
becomes nothing but
a pretentious, flat-chested,
save the whales,
save the rain forest bore.

You're the woman I want,
the woman with beer, tobacco
and blow jobs on her breath;
the woman who's too
horny to care,
too drunk to make me use a condom,
and too sweaty to make me spoon with her
the rest of the night;
the woman who'll take me home,
fuck me, then ask me to leave
before I'm able to find both my socks;
the woman who doesn't need to hear
the words "I'll call you"
or "j'ai un grand crayon, Isabella"
and what's more doesn't want to.

You're the woman I want to marry,
the woman I want to bear
and raise my children,
the woman I want to grow
old and fat and bald with
in a fourth floor walkup
on First Avenue and Second in Manhattan;
the woman whose underwear
I want to see lying
on the floor in the morning
with a few pubic hairs
stuck in the waistband
and an odd looking stain
that I just can't resist from sniffing.

If you are coming down through
the narrows of the East River
past the Con Ed plant on FDR Drive,
please let me know beforehand,
and I will come out to meet you as far as
Avenue D and Tenth Street.
- Jose Padua
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Originally published in Pink Pages, #9, 1996.