Leo’s Libido
Much like dogs,
men will lower their voices
when they’re feeling dominant.
Nothing surprising there,
but you might find it of interest
that women prefer men with lower voices.
Especially during those fertile periods
of the menstrual cycle.
Oh yea, and scientists also found
that women preferred these baritones
when it came to brief sexual affairs.
This might explain why my friend Leo
scores more poon tang than I do.

In his youth,
Leo was what you might call a
feral child.
Indeed, the rumor on the street was that at
sixth grade he had already grown hair
down there
on his knuckles.

By second grade he was being asked
to use the men’s toilets,
as it was feared that other boys exposure
to his premature manhood
might cause deep Freudian psycho-trauma.

Baby-sitting for Leo became a costly affair
as it quickly became apparent
his parents would have to hire a third person
to be present as chaperone.
Oh, I see you raise your eyebrows in
confounded disbelief but
when at nine months in,
the third babysitter in row
found herself looking for
her own babysitter, well…
action had to be taken.

The question was:
how do you suppress the rampant libido
of a testicular dynamo
whose every sexual encounter
was the equivalent of
the Yanks hitting Omaha Beach?
Yank after Yank after Yank spewing forth
from waves of turbo charged
amphibious landing craft.
Every woman’s crotch was Normandy
and his phallus
“Operation Overlord”.

Sure, Leo could have been sequestered away
in monastic solitude but
what spiritual mandate of
celibate condom-nation
could hope to tourniquet
his copious fluid passion?

What was it?
What was it that finally curbed Leo’s feral libido?
If his dog was limited
to a defined array of fire hydrants,
what was it that gave us the short leash?

Was it his lifetime subscription to Martha Stewart?
No.
His I Pod hardwired to Barry Mantilow?
No. Then…
what was it?
I’ll tell you what.
At some point in Leo’s seminal life,
some evil son of a bitch introduced him
to poetry.
You heard me right. Po-et-ry!
And just what do you think poetry does
to a man’s sperm count? Hum?


YOU say Leo is the same growling dog he always was.
You say he lifts his leg just like in those days of yore.
That Leo Marks his territory
with every guttural utterance.
And yet all that flows from his pencil is ink.
The lead’s long gone.
This dog
is spade.
This dog
is neutered.
This dog is nutted.
Oh so eunich…tified!

And I?
Because I’m a lesser man,
I cry for Leo.
I sob.
I lament.
He that was in many ways bigger than life-size
(in more ways than one)
has shriveled away to nothing.
And I ask you:
What is poetry but low down squat to pee?

For the sake of all things testosterone,
take away his pen
and give that dog a bone!

©07 Jack Hubbell