A thousand I should think,
But then I made no list
And thought it rude to count,
My cock and tongue and fist
Were ever busy then,
What now would be insane
To me was all there was
The clamp, the ball and chain...
A servitude that I
Embraced with holy zeal,
The artificial high,
The clit-clamped fleshy weal.
But all those days are gone,
The wastes of shame are few,
Should I forget the face,
The Polaroids will do.