Playgirl

When in her nineties she expired,

some they hated, some admired.

her pros and cons, her louche style,

the fabled Playgirl Mansion pile

wherein she held those naughty nights.

No down at heel unheard of Joes,

no writers of unflattering prose,

no hacks or fans of human rights,

but names, celebs and shining lights,

whose names she kept in little books,

the ones she’d chosen for their looks,

who queued for months to be invited,

humiliated but excited.

 

 

 

She had her rules for proper dress,

while waiting tables, serving drinks.

Age seventeen to twenty five,

with rippling six packs, bulging pecs,

bare legs, no beards, no gays or queers,

they wore a furry leotard,

and on their heads two floppy ears,

a studded collar, swinging tails,

her Playgirl Puppies, clean shaven males.

 

 

 

And every night she chose a few

to take upstairs for what they knew

would be a time of exploration

of various styles of copulation.

Some videos they watched at leisure, her

aim to show them ways to pleasure her.

 

 

 

Her female guests, no men, no boys,

would drink, indulging in the joys

of ogling guys like lewd voyeurs

and pinch their bums dressed up in furs.

At top of table she would sit

so thankful that she had the wit

to publish Playgirl magazine

that brought about this happy scene.

My Playgirl puppies know their station.

No question of objectification.

As for cries of exploitation,

she said its only recreation.

 

John Ling, aka Juicy John, having spent ten years working with autistic kids,  has learnt lots of ways to annoy people in charge. He now spend my days (seriously) in conflict resolution, and sending up all sorts of people in his writing.

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