“Fuck me? Fuck me? Fuck you, you fucking fuck!”
Della closed the book, finished for the night.
“What’s that?” he called. “Death of a Salesman?
That Willy guy? What was his name? Willy—”
“Loman,” she answered. “On the totem pole!
His totem pole was only average.”
She giggled. Ham’s pole was only “average,”
too, which made him nervous before a fuck.
She liked that in a man. A CNN poll
once canvassed fifty “ladies of the night”
to see how they’d rank a man’s "Willy"—
a priest, a pool boy, and a car salesman
topped the whores’ ratings—the used-car salesman’s
dick, especially, “above average.”
He yelled, “You’re not funny!” “How’s your Willy?”
she yelled back. He washed it before each fuck.
“Nilly? Don’t towel off too well!” The night
grimaced outside, quite like a totem pole.
“Ha ha,” he said as he lay down, his pole
most un-pole-like. “I think I read Salesman
in school,” he said. “Stayed up all one night.”
She snickered, “Raising your ‘D’ average,
no doubt.” He winced, but played along. “Fuck
you!” he said. “You wish!” she said. "Or your Willy
wishes!" She reached down, grabbed it. “Hey, Willy!”
she crooned. “Don’t tell me you’re a token pole!”
“Oh, stop! You think that makes me want to fuck?”
“I wasn’t reading Death of a Salesman—”
“You make me feel like Dame Edna Everage!”
“You look like Dame Edna Everage tonight!
And that was Mamet, not Miller, tonight!"
This wasn’t going well. Mocking Willy
could mean watching the Dow Jones average
crawl by, followed by sports. “Hey, guy, some pole!”
she breathed, as if she meant it—no salesman
blew smoke like Della when she craved a fuck.
Tonight, Leno was kissing Dame Everage.
“My Willy-pole… Come here, you wittle fuck!”
Ham pulled his bone. “So call the car salesman!”