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Delicious

It was the only tool I could find,
so I spread out newspapers on my
parquetry flooring, sat cross-legged
with my back against the heater
(it was winter, but Sydney style),
and picked up the screw-driver.

It was the only way I could be
comfortable. And I knew, with secret smile, 
that it would be messy and Bohemian,
decadent. So I poured the wine,
savoured that slosh so particular to white,
and lay my soft hands on a tight shell.

She was sandy, and petulant,
reluctant to permit my gross intrusion,
but the screwdriver did its rough work,
and the first oyster of two dozen was laid bare,
more thrilling than a million pearls
as it slipped down my pinked and eager gullet.

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