describe, describe

Wracked by accustomed spasms and throes, 
she waxed eloquent as her reason goes; 
as the sense that she makes wanes sensible.
Punctuated by deepening gasps, and full:
"It's like" "My vagina" "Is trying to throw up!"
"In a good way!" she hastily clarifies, but 
her beaming face now can tell no bold
and bare-ass lies, as she gropes within
to describe, describe, and I wonder
why. Oh why. Oh yes, 

she is about
the worst-dirty talker alive, no doubt. 
She has to be accurate, exact! She has 
for some reason to explain all that 
she finds moving within her 
in this here play. This show.
This one Act narrative.  
No one-man show, nor
woman, neither. A beast 
of a having each other's back, 
to give in slap and scratch
and tumbling sprawling in
to some uslike lovelike thing 
we can always tap, on cue. 

She can well explain that 
better than I would,
or do.