must have been sixth grade,
this kid T.J. or Tyler
–sixth grade I thought about making everyone call me Thomas,
–just going by Tom for the rest of my life.
he showed me his mother’s Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
thick-paged, glossy shine, woman after woman,
him pointing his finger at his favorites.
he was blonde,
but broader built than the boy I first kissed,
the thought of him and countless others,
thick-paged, glossy shine, boy after boy–
of course, I’ve always prefered my porn in videos.
she was everything I knew that I didn’t like from porn,
she had skin in rolls and a smell I couldn’t place,
but there was nothing revolting to her.
cloths on or off, she was all sly winks,
knowing smirks,
arousing slaps,
dirty jokes and desire.
she was the ugly friend in the rom-com,
who made me come harder than any before or since.
and what would I have missed if she were,
thick-paged, glossy shine, woman after woman,
pointing at the ones whose airbrush strokes–
–whose soft lighting
–whose makeup and pose
–looked more popculture beautiful
he’s weary ‘n worried over this date,
first in a long time, long, long time.
he’s been off fucking peoples’ mothers,
fucking peoples’ lovers,
but this is the first date in a long time.
he’s got himself tied in knots,
he’s wondering what her thank you text means,
why they didn’t kiss,
and he’s talking about how he wants to make her a “fuck buddy”,
which is code for he finds her physically attractive,
that he finds himself sometimes lost in thoughts about her,
that he’s trying to be a man in making those thoughts sexual,
even though he knows nothing of that part of her,
that he has to be a man,
even though he knows I don’t give two shits about masculinity,
but we both know.
we know what it means to be a man,
what we were taught,
and you don’t unwire that.
but they didn’t kiss,
and he blames it on him being “rusty”
but I ask if he enjoyed it,
and he’s bit-biting “hell yes”,
and from the way he cares about what she meant,
I just tell him to ask her on another date and see where things go.
it doesn’t have to be more complicated,
or simple,
than that.
thick-paged, glossy shine, image after image,
of what I’m supposed to find attractive, important,
and I feel guilty that I don’t.
