Material may not be reused without author's explicit permission.
You Got Some
Nice Things From Me
by anah childes
e walked for miles. It was your neighborhood—inner Houston—Montrose Avenue. Gay bars, bookstores—I perused one, an attractive woman wasted on the clientele peeking for a bulge in the trousers. I strutted anyway—there is enough guy in me to preen and parade.
It was easy for me to acclimate, accommodate—slide into your stride—feel your meter. We moved in tandem through jigsaw cafes, breezes reserved for loves, nudging us through side streets and major fares.
You f-cked me.
You f-cked me like g-d would have f-cked me.
Intense, desirous—sloppy, strong—thunderous pound
Everywhere and odd moments.
Free fall moments.
I wet as afterthought.
I loved your anecdotes you bent about me like forged black cast iron on graveyard railings, covering me with trivialities that were murdered in your head—history channel notes, odd articles you probably read while waiting for your next anesthetist case—your inside brain bleeding on our walk—re-waking the dead.
I heard it all. I like to give what I want to receive and I wanted you to hear my fold of unfold as I wrapped tight thighs into your groin—fit like a petal to stamen in a Georgia O Keefe painting. BOLD—and full there.
Vagina, clitoris, ovum, penis, erection, phallic and Sabbath sounds so f-cking sexual. Say it!
"I must go through you to get to g-d!"
Your semen in my hair.
I liked kneeling before you—you offering your manhood, wrapping my hair in your cock.
A slight shudder—you surrendered to me—ahhhh, it was so equal in surrender.
Moshe, Elijah—they are ghost on the breeze behind us—breathing prophecy and commandments—F-ck!
F-ck!
Kirk Douglas, man with his complaints of impotence. Thirty days with thirty women and on the thirtieth day, his cock rested.
His cock rested.
Yours did not rest me—pinning me.
Measuring the distance between your belly and where my back skirted the structure of the wall.
Shove
And I am done.
Shove
And I am done.
I went to meet g-d and he was there.
Your critique of this work is appreciated.
Please e-mail the author.<
Return to Sauce*Box, Winter 2000-01