a journal in short bursts that might occasionally even rhyme |
When you wake feeling blue remind yourself of me lapping gently at the secret parts of you under drunken stars and an orange moon. We laughed the first time I asked if I could kiss you “down there,” best friends suddenly navigating the unexpected shores of sexual attraction. Two bumbling adolescents secure in nothing but our mutual admiration and a determination to get laid. When you wake feeling blue remember how perfect you looked splayed across the guest room rug covered in nothing but diamonds and me. You wrinkled your nose, squinting adorably without your glasses, trying to gauge my seriousness by asking if I thought I’d be any good at it. You knew that any red-blooded man and quite a few yellow ones would feel compelled to take up that gauntlet. When you wake feeling blue remember the muffled squeaks of a bed hastily covered in towels, not wanting blood-stained sheets to give us away. I nodded almost assertively inordinately proud of my scratchy stubble and newly deepened voice – for a whole year now – but stalled for time by posturing. "What are you waiting for?" you asked, and I screwed up the courage to unbutton your jeans with shaking hands When you wake feeling blue roaming empty rooms in a house his money paid for remember that I have never not found my way back to you. Supremely self-confident, even then unafraid to grab my head and shift it to where it needed to be, you were a wet dream in pinks and reds moaning harder, faster, please and finally, incoherently, in exactly the way I had always imagined, my name. After I came you laughed softly while kissing my cheek and squeezing my ass. When you feel blue you have forgotten that the moments you spend alone I too am alone with arms that flail strangely without the heft of your body to guide them. Years later, at a gallery opening for a mutual friend, you told me how hard it was not to laugh that first time and spoil it all. And that despite our inexperience we acquitted ourselves marvelously, using the right amount of touch and tongue and teeth. Instead of tears for distance give thanks for crisp hotel sheets for the infinite possibilities inherent in a cyan thong for a DYI stripper pole for a thirty dollar camera for the worldwide web for the freedom his indifference brings for having someone who loves you in all the shades of blue. I had to confess it was hours of lonely masturbation to lesbian porn no less that had taught me my technique – when to move left when to press harder when to introduce fingers into the equation. I had to laugh when you confessed to the same. If you remember how can you still despair? |