At the root of man is the sexual urge

You can deny and condemn

It’s there it lingers in wait for the future

no stronger and more potent does it live than in the loins of a surgeon

It is disguised don’t confuse potency with exposure

Lying on that surface close controlled welling

it breaks through the skin

cutting into the mind arrested by the brain digging in with the

sabre

Each cut and prod probing deeper down

into darknesses foray

Holding on tight to life seizing and sensing this luscious red flow

Only they can know the brutal urgency within and without

Once the foil is down they would lie wait cool control orgasmic let the urge  abate

start over again with the épée