Men trade love for sex and women trade sex for love.
There comes a time in every woman’s life
When she’ll admit she’s glad she’s not a man—
Including those who’ve undergone the knife
Pursuant to her husband’s master plan
To have it all: rejuvenated skin
And buxom augmentations meant to spur
Desire no longer coming from within.
For him it’s pure pornography; for her,
Innate impulsion to authenticate
The bond with him whom she takes pains to please.
In every woman’s life—if not too late—
There comes a time when she acutely sees
Her man is crippled with a chromosome
That’s flawed, a gimpy “Y” in place of “X!”
And yet she does her best to make a home,
Provide her spouse with mediocre sex,
And rear the little ones who populate
The household: likable imperfect copies
Of strangers who once loved to copulate
Incessantly. It’s said, the juice of poppies
Can palliate the pain of those who’ve come
To learn that marriage is a reckless barter,
A game whose end is less than zero-sum,
Where boredom and despair stand in for ardor.