(Welcome to Bookys choice of stuff to take into space with her – if you’d like to join her in the vast, unknowable reaches of the universe, here’s the original post to point you on your way. Ed.)

I kind of already do have my own planet right here on earth–it took me quite a few years to arrange it, fix it up, fund it adequately and furnish correctly, and it’s called my house–but of course, there is always room for improvement, and for that, space is the place.

Small cocks, medium cocks, large cocks. Long ones with a dose of early cosmetic surgery and short, fat ones au naturel. Cocks like loaves of bread. Cocks like wedges, cocks like liter bottles. “What the fuck” cocks. “Oh, hell no” cocks. Thin, thick, dark, light, curved, scarred, veined, smooth, cocks that go left, cocks that veer right (and quite often in the opposite direction of their owners’ political leanings). Shy ones that need gentle coaxing and bold ones that jump out at you like cobras. Cocks that you’d like to forget and cocks you couldn’t fail to remember if you lived to be a hundred.

Work is a way we define who we are and that’s why when people meet you at a party they almost always ask you, “What do you do?” By the time you’re an old broad like me, you should be able to roll your eyes and crack wise: “What haven’t I done, kid?” And that’s what I aim to do here, for your pleasure.

1) I have lived the majority of my life in Hudson County, New Jersey, which is right next to the island of Manhattan and is known for its working-class-immigrant toughness and widespread political corruption. Which means that I make a world-class lasagna, I speak Spanish with a bit of a Cuban accent, corned beef and cabbage is steam table bar food, I am a hardcore party-line Democrat, I tend to call people “hon,” and when the gritty breeze off the Hudson River gets too hot, I go down the shore (never “to the beach”).

This poem goes out to our fave Kiwi, Miss Vivien S-S-S: if that ex of yours is not buried under the house yet, I know a guy.