I Got Laid Once

Friday, May 5th, 2017

 

1.) Dancing (grinding, as it were.)

There was a song,

some obscure Kanye track,

that glued him to me.

His chest braced my back,

his palms clutched

my hips which were swirling,

circling deeper into

the spoon his body made.

A harsh scruff scraped past

my cheek, transferring an itchy

smile in the place where

numb lips failed a kiss.

I took a hand from my leg,

which had previously been thumping

my thigh to the bass,

and trusted he’d follow outside.

He did.

I huffed

a heavy breath

and said,

“Boy, it was hot in there.”

2.) Grinding (sex, as it were.)

I think there was an understood rhythm,

a rhythm which wasn’t particularly lurid

nor particularly fluid.

It was a stumbling sort of rhythm,

a rhythm with potential were it not for

the intoxication of the musicians.

Blades of grass stuck to my shins,

dew dampened the cotton weave of his shirt.

Buttons, I realized, are tedious;

I only appreciated zippers when they were

down.

Everything was sticky now:

his head, my hands hooked to his chest and

my thighs which he thwacked, still,

now to the pound of our own bass.

This was too quick

a moment to feel anything but each other;

technically attached but never one.

Sweat and humid breath

mingled, bathing his

bare back.

3.) He (me.)

He came

to me the next morning,

scratched his head, and told me he had fun.

I said,

“Same.”

He asked for my name.

I told him,

“My name doesn’t matter

to you anymore.”

He asked what I meant.

I said,

“To ask for my name

is to suggest we need an ice breaker

to get to know each other.

I know all about you now,”

He looked relieved

as if he’d been let off the hook

for hooking up with a nameless body,

saved from being labeled as uncompassionate.

I blinked at him.

“I mean, yours doesn’t matter to me.”

Though, I knew his name and still do;

I will forget it, maybe, one day.

And I’m alright

with being callous and hard;

he was a few hours ago.