The inspiration for this prose poem is the way that pop-culture portrays men as being sex machines, while women try to wheedle out sex in the concept that heterosexual sex is still being treated as an economic contract. Women are still being held to the same standards of Victorian sexual codes at the same time that casual sex is supposed to be the norm. The poem is about sex from a female point of view.
Get it on every night and your man might last one week, no matter how much he says he wants suck or bone. You ain't no nympho, no slut. Men just can't keep up. No bullshit of emotional neglect makes you need it. It's all chemical. It's all the oh. No need attention and feel valued through six minutes of oh baby you're so beautiful, and, yeah yeah you know what I like. If he knew what you liked it would be all night, all bone, all head. It would be chocolate afterward, and steak. It would be all of how eating steak is like eating pussy. He says you've got post-coital glow but what he means is he's glowing. When he thinks he satisfied you he means he satisfied himself, and he'd like to see you in facial porn. He means he's easy and you're hard and he can get it on with anyone, and you? You need it everyday. You need it from him.