the way that I do for men.
I hunger for male bounty,
while I wrap myelf in lush,
easily procured love from women.
I remember Jon Long (who wasn't),
his dark eyes, long hair,
Camaro and guitar.
I remember him asking,
as we lay in tangled sheets,
if I would fuck a girl.
When I said no, he asked why.
I remember how solemnly he absorbed my reply:
because they don't turn me on.
I remember the time Becky and I made out,
as foreplay for our men,
a pair of brothers.
I remember being mildly repulsed by her touch,
but wondering if I would enjoy it
if it was someone else.
Years have passed,
decades.
I dream of two men pleasuring each other,
but only rarely do I dream of women.
But then I met a girl...
who flirts like a man
and is soft and sweet
and the essence of what I love about women.
She is beautiful, too, but I'm not sure that matters.
I imagine
lying on the floor,
staring at the smoke as it billows toward the ceiling.
I imagine turning to her and asking just what is her type.
I catch my breath,
(because what if)
and I imagine she just smiles
and I imagine reaching out to touch her face
and I think
that if she keeps smiling,
that I would lean in
and if she leaned in too
I imagine -
the delicate touch of her lips to mine
a softness,
and then a parting,
tongues darting,
a breath released like the whisper of a moan,
the sweetness of a pleasure restrained,
skimming the surface of desire.
I imagine that we would part
after long moments
with starry eyes,
blinking
and deeply blushing.
I would bite my lip
and look to her for approval -
I didn't cross the line, did I?
She would smile back, so big,
and shake her head,
then kiss my nose.
We would disolve into giggles and fall to our backs.
It's easier for me to imagine sweaty
urgent unions
hands groping for ingress
bodies pressing together,
interlocking.
These scenes are usually ones I populate with a man or two,
drowning me with pleasure,
but it is no longer foreign
to imagine
the intensity
of pairing with a woman
filling that tableau -
the softness of curves against curves
the wetness created and filled -
with knowing fingers or tongue.
- and I know it would be so hard to stop
myself
from being lost
in that kiss.
