apologia pro sexual fantasies mea

Stuck at the traffic lights in Inchicore.
I become aware of Irish parliamentary candidate Louise Minihane staring fixedly at me from a poster.
Her eyes glisten with impossible dreams.
Mysteries.
Invitations.
I've said it before and I'll say it again.
Aiiiieee caramba.
I mean, who the hell is producing these posters?
And why are all these women chasing after me?
I've gotta tell you folks.
After my recent torrid affairs with Catherine Ardagh, Maria Parodi, Rebecca Moynihan et al, (Who's Al? - Ed note.) I'm in no rush to allow another sex crazed politician into my life.
I look back at Louise Minihane.
She makes no attempt to avoid my gaze.
In the light of evening, her allure is all the more powerful.
I shake my head.
My words when they come are spoken softly.
I say:
"Let me have parliamentarians about me who are fat.
Such pols as sleep a nights.
Yon Minihane hath a lean and hungry look.
She thinks too much.
Probably about sex.
I'm sick and tired of every woman I meet wanting to get inside my pants.
No really.
Just once I'd like to meet a girl who'd appreciate me for myself and not just for my finely honed preraphaelite Greek god's body.
Ho hum."
And I drove on.
Into the warm gathering dusk of an opalescent night.