Rub my back. I command you.

If I were a vagina I would never talk to my dirty neighbor to the south whose puckered mouth smells of sin and debauchery and the clenched visage of retention.

Always he's coming over with a cup to borrow sugar and flour to make brownie cakes and to use my toilet and always to clog it, always he sneaks out with my toilet rim full with poop and a few papers.

If I were a vagina I would peer at him from the curly screen that seperates us and the dog goes wild, running around yelling and yapping at the knock on the door.

"Are you in there," he says every time and every time I stay quiet.

I know he wants in on the action. You know, send a little cock my way. But send the little ones cause it hurts.

I do not outsource cock. Nor will I. You can promise that. If I were a vagina, that is.