By Drew Pisarra
Outside the dorms, my head rests in your lap
as you blow smoke rings in your father’s car.
I want more but so far this as far
as you will go: Getting stoned, talking crap
about school and declining the crass suck
I offer up. You claim I’ve misread you.
You’re not gay, not bi, not in the mood.
Despite your last name, you’re not Teutonic
either. You’re adopted, of Long Island
stock, your heritage semi-Sicilian,
semi-Sephardic. Yet your cold orphan
heart ain’t the organ hardening behind
my nestled head. Far from it. I think gay
need not extend past this moment. Okay?
Your point being? You mean to say what? That
Parisian accent obscures your reply
which might not, as it happens, be a reply.
You might be asking me a question that
I’m mishearing as a garbled answer.
Not that we two particularly care what
the other’s uttered. We’ve tired of asking “What?”
We may as well use “what” as an answer.
This pretense of foreplay, this nonsense of talk,
the suspense in flirting, verbal or not,
is dispensed with because flirting is not
our big objective. We don’t miss small talk.
End goals aside, I wished that you’d warned me
about your Prince Albert. That silenced me.
You’re depressed. I get it. The meds have made
you fat. Your feelings haven’t changed. Your mind’s
gone flat. You no longer attain those fine
erections you once did and your low-grade
libido doesn’t care. A kiss leaves you
content yet if I want more I’m being
pushy. Do you really think I’m peeing
behind that bathroom door? Please get a clue:
I’m jerking off then returning to find
you asleep with your face hidden by Kurt
Cobain hair. I wish I could swallow the hurt
as quickly as you downed those pink-and-white
pills. Our bond has been chemically reduced!
You’ve found happiness but I’m not seduced.
It’s a fairly straight shot from Downey to
Vegas but the drive feels long since your car
lacks AC. So we roll down windows as far
as they’ll go then hide behind shades that you’ve
pinched from an overlit mini-mart. Wind
sands our faces; skin clings to cracked leather;
we’re doomed to sweat sweat flash-dried by hot air.
This sun’s rays are relentlessly unkind
yet still we drive on, after a sleepless
night spent dry humping on your childhood bed.
Is that Mecca in the distance ahead?
No such luck. Sin City is one hot mess
of cheap brunches, rushed weddings, stained box springs,
slot machines, false teeth, fake breasts, and faux bling.
You are so much like the others, so much
like what came before you and what ‘s to come,
so unwilling to stick, to shine, to touch
upon more than the barest minimum
of who you are behind that bland façade:
balding, medium build, average height,
a man who believes believing in God
to be absurd. Your word. You keep it light
with forced asides about the day’s headlines
recycling in your Facebook feed. You never
wire from your interior; you malign
all but the superficially clever.
I wince at tin-ear laughs you self-create.
If you’re my choice, I’d rather masturbate.
© 2020 Drew Pisarra