How I love the horror of virginity,
the dread my peach fuzz gives me when I lie
grassed supine, coveting petting.
These soft fine furs are not
quim fluff but still I know
how lonely girls must ache beneath
fogs of chiffon ribbons curls lace panties
pearls grease-slicked lips plumped to pout
like little apples dipped in goo
kohl-caged eyes circled with soot
foundation laid to anchor smears of rouge.

We are the chaste fruits laced
tight with tragic waste...

one taste could kill a lover
if beauty tastes like death.