No fucking; this was something we both agreed
that we agreed on. Besides, this is far more enjoyable:
not sex, but just like sex, with clothes on.
Your hand slips around the other side of my waist,
and I don’t resist:
this is where, and how, and when
I first learned how to kiss
those who really let go of their prejudices
and see me for who I am: not a temptor, or (depending on your stereotypes) a temptress
but a friend who is as open and welcoming with his body
as the waves, and the seas, and the oceans.
Your fingers curl tight around what other poets might call my manhood,
and I simply call
my penis,
because why bother with images?
It’s 2023 and the world is fucking ending.
Might as well take me in stride.
Might as well learn just how delicious
it feels, to feel our fingers moving together, in rhyme
across these outer worlds, these parts of the psychosomatic soul
that we overdefine, and overrefine, even though few dare to cross these lines
while still maintaining their senses of who they are. Their selves, no longer taught to hide
but to appreciate what skin on skin means.
What real friendship can actually look like
with clothes on, hands wound around nipples,
bodies touching the barest sounds
of pleasure. Of the privilege that stepping into the spaces between universes engenders:
I think you’ve finally discovered that your masculinity really begins
when your heart enters my treasure chests,
and your hands let themselves run free across my sands.
Untie nothing.
Your legs feel so alive, entwined in mine.
Your body shivers, as content as one can find
in this living nightmare:
I relax in your hand’s gentle spacetime,
and let what other poets might call my masculinity flare.