He’d need the busy arms of an octopus,
the lapping tongue of an anteater,
the endurance of a trudging camel living off its hump,
and the iron will of a bighorn ram hammering for hours at rival suitors,
he’d need all these natural strengths to service his past lovers
were they all now to gather under his blanket at once.
He’s akin to an alpha stag after the rut,
after the early fall revelries,
after the fickle, sated and pregnant harem wanders away,
leaving the exhausted old buck to face
icy January, freezing February, famine-prone March,
and the distant, distant April thaw
with neither a herd to run with nor grass to graze.
But our human stud,
our once bon vivant among the amorously reclined
wraps a blanket tightly around himself
and feeds off a rich harvest of memories
of the dozens who once slept beside him.
And he smiles, warmly, very warmly, even giggles
for the combined weight of his conquests
were they in the flesh and not flashes of deja vu
would collapse even an emperor-sized bed.
