What's In A Word, Anyway?

Fuck my cunt . . I need it . . . Fuck my pussy.
Love the way your cock rips into me.
I can hear my wetness . . . Tear my cunt apart.
Can you hear it?  I hear it.   Love the sound of you fucking me (tss, tss, tss), oh, sweetheart.

Later that day he composed a poem for her.
He wrote of her physical beauty and other virtues and quoted her outcries like a reporting voyeur.
She accepted the poem smiling, happy,
and said with an ironic giggle that she hoped the poem would be mawkishly sappy. 

He did not get the result he expected.
Her smile now gone, her face infected with anger:  I don't approve of the C word.
But . . . You said . . . I heard--
I'm a lady.  I hate that word.  If you like it so much, why not call one of your old sluts up?
What? 

WHAT!