We downed that
half-bottle of port for courage, pilfered
from the pantry:
Kool-aid chased with a
bellyful of fire and then
too-casually
watched big-hair bands wiggle
leather-clad asses on
Friday Night Videos
Momma (mine) and daddy (his)
asleep already in their
not-quite nuptial bed,
assuming nothing more than
a quasi-cousinly kiss between us
during his two-week summer visit:
We eyed one another, knowing,
from across the expanse of
cream-coloured sofa
What can one do with
fifteen-year-old vintage
hormones racing under the
skin like souped-up Indians across
a desert salt-flat, except
ride them 'til they run out of gas?
He was hung like a pinkish-purple ox and
full of enthusiasm as I plied
all the tricks I'd read about in
Cosmopolitan to please a man
in bed; I guessed this applied to boys
on sofas as well
I let him hammer away at me
to the strains of Brian Adams' Heaven,
my slick-wet girl's womb wincing from the battering even
as I felt a flicker of triumph that
I was now a Cosmo woman and
he was my Cosmo man and we'd
just done something that
would raise momma's (mine) and
daddy's (his) hair in horror.
