Hello again dear readers, today we’re going to be doing something a little different as this week’s piece was actually submitted by yours truly. This poem is entitled; ‘Illegal Virgin’.
I failed to register my sexuality because I bottled it, waiting in the line to see my council appointed courtesan.
I’m now considered a potential sexual risk, blacklisted from public parks, curfewed after dark, you can’t trust a man who never lost his virginity.
See, the government believes that the only way to stop the predators, the groomers and the rapists is to give it away for free.
After all, when man is starved, he inevitably steals a loaf of bread, those who go without liquid for so long will eventually turn to sea water.
Therefore, a virgin who grows old will surely begin to visit playgrounds.
So a new law was created and rapidly passed by all the randy over sixty year olds at Westminster; lose it by twenty-five or let it be your freedom.
And so began the so called, “New age of free love.”
Overnight ladies of the night found themselves made redundant as the nurses began their “specialised training”.
Nymphomaniacs roamed from clinic to health centre claiming at each one to have “never had the chance.”
It’s actually quite an quick and easy process to get your quick roll on the examining table.
First they take your name, then your age, sexuality and finally your innocence; just make sure to remember to wash your genitals in the anti-bacterial dispenser before and after the act.
Now if you have the money you gets choices, do you want it to be a memorable experience or a meaningless shag?
Want it to be rough or gentle? Top or bottom? Rather it be an act of love; a team of professional drama students are on call at all times, or a drunken mistake? Note: only NHS approved alcohol is provided to practisers.
The only thing you can’t choose is who you end up with.
I don’t have much money, the only choice I was given, was whether I wanted to do it in darkness.
I could have gone through with it, taken off my trousers while absently scanning through my practitioners clean certificate that stated no STD’s.
Then I imagined the anonymous security man, inside his little back camera room, watching the replay of the day’s CCTV footage with a box of tissues next to his greasy mug.
In a blind panic I tried to make a dash for it but before I made it down the corridor, I tripped on a slippery surface sign and fell face first into a smeared pool of white substance; how did it get there?!
A pair of rubber gloved hands pulled me up, it took me a second before I realised another set of fingers pulling down my pants.
I screamed, flailed my arms and legs desperately to preserve my dignity, faintly I could hear a soft voice in my ear telling me, “Calm down, we’re professionals.”
Somehow I squirmed free, made my way outside to safety with my trousers round my ankles and privates out in full public view, there were children about…the police carted me away.
I’m not a pervert…I’m just shy.
Hope you all enjoyed my (slightly disturbing) poem, as usual if you are an aspiring writer interested in submitting a piece of work you’re always welcome to contact us.
Email: Andrew at spheremag dot co uk
Thanks for reading.
