When you asked me out to watch a musical, I thought, “How gay is that?”
Your childhood hero was a barber whose wife was raped: Sweeney Todd
flicked his blade, his mistress baked the men in pies and delayed, not yet!
Back in your one-cat apartment, on the futon, we watched The East is Red.
You slept in your own bed. Next morning, when you came to me, I caught
your lips in mine or, rather, I was caught. Your hands unhooked me, not yet.
We stumped the afternoon in Central Park. The crocuses were up. You gabbed
about some German phrase. Give me a French cab instead, I thought,
a covered horse-drawn carriage. But the Rambles is not Tumble yet.
Back in bed, we watched 1984 ("Our scientists are set
to eliminate the orgasm."). My fingers circled, stopped and swam to your crotch.
You scooped them up and kept them in your sternum-pond. Not there. Not yet.
The cold sun rose. Seven times. The whole week I thought of caged rats,
the missed cab ride, the east is red, hot meat pies – musical plots
that hurry and halt toward climaxes, grazing the razor-blade of not yets.
I molded myself round your back and smelled your sleep sprayed with sweat.
You woke, what time is it? 8.10. And went back to sleep. 9 on the dot.
9.40. 5 to 10. You did not close your eyes this time. Now. Yes.
I leapt, a cat, lapped your balls, licked and paused till you turned wet,
my barracuda teeth teasing the stops. I’m coming. You blew like snot.
Gratified, you reached for me and pumped. My cock cried, yes, not yet.