Nothing, but a hound dog

I was on both knees, 

pressed against the wooden

ledge of the bed,

ass out,

shirt on,

shorts off,

undies on the floor,

as I was working on 

getting a hard-on, 

I couldn’t help but 

overhear the geezers

bickering about whether

or not we should get 

a dog.           

“We don’t have the space!”

the geezer belched.

“We can leave it in the living room.”

“None of us are home for ten-hours!”

They went on. 

And on.

And on.

The old geezer was very adamant

we need not get a dog. 

Argument, justifiable.

Later that night, I heard it.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

As with most things uncanny,

I ignored it.

Paid no attention. 

Therefore, falling asleep.

A week later, I strolled up

to the driveway, used the

key to open the garage,

and suddenly, a Pitbull

came bolting out 

like an Olympic sprinter.     

“So, we have a dog…,” I said.

“There’s a lesson to be learned,”

the geezer said, scratching  

his flaky scalp.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Once you 

get a taste, 

a feel,

you’re a 

goner…”