On Cosmopolitan and Mutual Deflowering with My Not-Quite-Step-Brother

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.