These ladies must have pillows,
And beds by strangers wrought;
Give me a bower of willows
Of moss and leaves unbought
—Campion, "I Care Not For These Ladies"
No, no, the ring heightens the pleasure, boy,
its bite is meant to help you find the joy
manifest in pain; it helps me too, of course,
keeps you in a manly way once the source
of your sanguinity’s been forgotten.
Don’t cry; I too was an ugly, rotten,
spoiled little snipe once, thighs shut so tight
not even a flea could wriggle in quite
far enough to snatch a bite—but then I met
the sweet-tongued charioteer, and he set
me straight about men and women: how each fat
finger, each gnawed and broken nail that
shone pink through the cracks, even the moist, white
centers of both my palms could excite
him; and as his lips grazed from each to each
softly, well, yes, I believed he could teach
me things about love. And so he did,
and so I know: that to endure, we must bid
for the right to cause one another such
pain as human love is; that its touch
is craved by all; that with practice, your
nails can grow hard and sharp—before
long, you too will understand, my sweet:
See? Even now your joy drips on the sheet.
