Fox Fox Fanny Cuts

by Otto Burnwell

fox fox fanny cuts

makes you feel the whip at once,

the pain is so exciting,

the visit over all too quick,

your blood is not quite dry.

she turns your pockets out

before handing back your clothes

and leaves you nothing to get home.

she’ll savor, like an after-dinner mint,

the thought of you debased,

entreating change from strangers

so you can ride a city bus.

the purple bruises fade to gray

the gashes heal and harden into welts.

again, compulsion swallows you,

the mongrel at her door,

scratching so she’ll let you in.

she waits behind the curtained windows,

listening to your whimpered pleas

before she whispers, “welcome,

said the spider to the fly,”

then makes you herbal tea.

she watches you disrobe

to let her bind you with her chains.

it isn’t love, these wounds you’ll ice,

these cuts you’ll daub,

these burns from melted wax.

more like a secret pride

in a lover’s grim possession.

but there are times

when you’re gagged and bound,

her eyes can’t hide their gleam.

she aches to go too far

and that’s the day she’ll kill you,

which gives you such a hard-on

you can barely stand the wait.