God, in the incarnation of Jean-Paul Sartre on laughing gas,
personally admonished me.
"Be not naughty unto women," snickered He.
But I had a hangnail and was focused on my toenail clippers.
I remained unfaithful, of course.
No, when a blonde was the woman of my dreams,
I wasn't in a cheap motel with a redhead...
neither when a brunette was the current love of my life,
did I sneak out to a midnight club with a bald, nose-ringed punk rockette.

Rather, when I was arm and arm with my momentary eternal love,
and she peeled away not her bra and panties, but
the rouge covering her psyche,
I would seek the solace of my secret other and plead,
"My lady doesn't understand me but you do." The line always worked, and the sex was WOW!
But my ladies all found out.
They'd rip the bedcovers off and would expose naked me,
then leave me alone to wrap my arms around myself.
Eventually, I died of embarrassment, really died.
On the great scales, my heart was balanced against the ankh of veracity,
with the goddess's thumb discretely pressed on that pan of truth.

So here I am, condemned for an eternity to a supermarket checkout line,
holding my one purchase, a melting popsicle dripping sticky cream on my
hands,
while every woman in the world is in front of me,
each with an oversized pocketbook, fumbling for exact change.