At the poetry reading, we acted just kind of goofy for each other. To the point where we just sat there and held hands. He read a sonnet about giving oral sex and it was goooood. In the world of performance poetry, you end up hearing a lot of really terrible sex poems, so a good one is a real treat.
I’d bought him a coffee at the reading, so at the bar afterwards, he asked if he could buy me a shot and I said “Sure! Buy me twelve!” I’m really not a big drinker, but I was experimenting a little with whiskey at the time and he decided to teach me all about Jameson. Turns out, I really like Jameson. As we drank, we got closer and closer, like he was pulling me toward him. By the time we were home on my couch, we were just tangled up. I changed into my flannel cupcake pajamas. Sweetie hung around for a bit, then went to bed.
I haven’t thought about this part in so long, I don’t remember how it started. We just somehow went from hugging nicely and snoozing a little to kissing like our breath depended on it. Those kisses, they just make my heart drop, even still. That feeling, like a man wants me so much he might literally eat me, that passion and abandon, is something I’d craved for so long that I thought I might never get it. We just kissed and kissed and kissed like the inexperienced teenagers we both are at heart. I was crushed up against him, his hands unbuttoning my pajama top and running over my bra. I kept pushing his hands away and they kept coming, and I kept being glad they kept coming.
When his hand went down my pajama pants and found my clit, I was complete mush, so crazily turned on. He would later sneak this into a poem as “a study in fluid dynamics.”
And then, just like in the sonnet, down he went and I was like (in my head, not aloud) OH, let us now praise facial hair. He was so much rougher than Sweetie, his tongue so desperate and insistent and all-the-way-in-there, but I couldn’t come. I’m a loud comer, and I thought Sweetie was asleep in the next room.
I fumbled around ineptly in his pants for a little bit, but the sun was coming up. We made jokes about what Shakespeare said about the birds. For the record:
‘Tis almost morning, I would have thee gone
And yet no further than a wanton’s bird
That lets it hop a little from his hand
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves
And with a silken thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.
I would I were thy bird.
Sweet, so would I.
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.
So, you know, Shakespeare’s birds weren’t the best harbingers.
Next: Dear Sweetie, I really suck. Also, a poetry workshop and how he became Scrabble Boy.