our dream is to sail around the world
and he has the yacht to do it.
his name is jeff
dick has the yacht to do it
and it is a huge yacht
girthy and long and firm and pulsating with desire.
we are the maid who has been hired to keep dick’s yacht spotless
and our name doesn’t matter all that much
because we are a literary device created to allow lonely, horny readers to self-insert.
we cross our legs tightly under the table.
we push our silky hair back over one shoulder, exposing a slender neck.
we bite our lip, and bring blood to the surface - red.
our cheeks flush prettily and we have never
NOT EVEN ONCE
or had diarrhea
or period cramps
or mental health issues
or invisible illnesses
or learning disabilities
or physical disabilities.
we have no money,
but honestly, who the fuck does these days?
dick had money, but he spent it all on his stupid fucking pulsating penis
sorry, i mean yacht
and spends his days loving scrubbing the gleaming sides with a soft cloth
stroke stroke stroke
pulling and pushing
gripping and twisting.
the yacht is not a thinly veiled metaphor for dick’s dick
it is a blatant metaphor for dick’s dick.
dick would love for us, the maid who has been hired to keep dick’s yacht spotless
to climb aboard and take a ride
in another blatant metaphor for sexual intercourse.
this is not what we meant when we said
our dream is to see the world.