Just when I get some steam built, feeling
like an architect of steam, ready to vaporize

inside you, you say stop—which isn't easy.
There are no power brakes in the genitals, 

no runaway boner ramps. I flop onto my back.
The blood marches single-file down the long, 

winding staircase of my cock, like an emergency
evacuation of the Washington Monument

during the height of tourist season. My testicles
ache like a boxer's punching bag. I wish a bell

would ding, and a bald Italian guy with ice packs
and smelling salts would hop into the ring

of our desire, deliver a pep talk, say focus on her
lullaby button, like the ribs of Apollo Creed.