His flirtation is step-by-step as prescribed in a high-taste mag,
andante cantabile, working well,
and my approach and retreat is on foot’s horse.
Undressing is not much embarrassment, and he is good
at letting on some form of gasp. No strangely new postures.
On top, by side, and by turns. Taking turns mean equality.
This system generates its own supply and demand circle.
When his tool withdraws, for the last time, and his body is still on me,
a disgust is crawling from some corner of the room. He catches it,
knowing it’s better to leave as soon as possible, as mutually expected.
A descent farewell takes nothing from the scene and leaves nothing behind.
I open the window, wrap up in a bathrobe, and squeeze a mug of fruit juice,
coolness splaying inside, warmth sticky on the pane.
September 22, 2008