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Confessions of a Weed Whacker (and Mrs. Robinson)

Mrs. Robinson sure looks fine today. so fine, i’m inclined to whack her weeds in a way that she won’t want to have any other man whack them for her but me.

i catch her watching me from the corner of my eye. (sigh) i just want to stop and stare at her for a moment, as she languidly stands there in the window—gossamer gown mercilessly covering the curves of her firm figure, the few undraped openings glistening with beaded sweat.

while i’m pushing, pretending not to notice her, i often get these pangs, wanton flashes of her wet legs wrapping around me, immediately after one of her long workouts—tread mill runs, yoga, pilates—all those fancy exercises she does in the room with the giant bay window that overlooks this great lawn.

i like the way she holds and strokes the cool condensation off the side of her mint julep—a torturously slow up and down. sometimes, i dream i am that glass. each time she takes a lazy sip and them smiles and wiggles a little with her hourglass hips, i get giddy, shiver even, especially on those blessed occasions when she lets out an “oooo! that’s good,”.

“i would you know,” i want to tell her, along with all the other confessions, this unforgiving horde of wanton wishes i have stored since the first day i pressed and slowly released her precious pink doorbell button to announce “i’m your weed whacker mrs. robinson, i’m your weed whacker.


Boy Help

Wild and fast and long
He moves across the grass
And cuts the summer weeds
With his tempting and tight-ass

In the sultry, stifling air
Firm shoulders push
Disheveled feral hair,
As inviting as that tush.

He stops to smile and sip,
The water, I reach out to him
Smirking, he knows of the tip
I intend to give him in the end.

"Thank you, Mrs. Robinson,"
He hands back the moist glass
I take a slow sip myself
Leaning against the hard Sassafras.

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