We’ve agreed
you will only touch
the best parts, that look beautiful when naked:
my heart.
My face.
My arms.
My ass.
I am shimmied up on top of you,
my face still buried in your hopes and dreams
that I might turn into something a little less crass:
maybe I could be a girl,
and your penis could jerk and shiver
for real, at the idea of something heterosexual.
But no, for that
you still need energy in the real world
whenever it’s not a man
that sits in your lap, and your fingers slide,
glittering,
across my cheeks, beneath my underwear.
Something gives:
thankfully, not a tear
but your eyes, and mine, weeping quietly
in gentle, hyperstimulated bliss that involves no intoxicants
other than the sense of two very attractively loving men
gently touching each other, and in doing so
letting their fingertips encounter all of the known universe.