Oso Para Vos

DIRTY TALK.

Dirty talking shadows in
dimly-lit, smoke-filled bars
stir restless gonads to
suggestion, proposition
and sweet, nasty lies.
The scent of body sweat
mingles with department store
perfume like oil and water,
leather and silk —
unlikely, yet strangely magnetic.
Oh yeah …
I love the way the lie
exuding from your posing stance
binds my wrists and genitals,
pulling me to my knees;
demanding nameless submission.
Across the distance we begin a
sultry dance of anonymous flirtation:
I turn to catch your stare,
you look away;
my eyes drop to my cocktail,
yours slowly scan my torso and loins.
I acknowledge with a smile and you
walk away because I broke the rules,
was too eager to collude fantasy
with reality and was, therefore, unsafe.
You feign indifference as you watch me
leave with another two hours later.
And I’m already half-spent as
I prepare to torpedo our dirty talk
into the bowels of my compromise.

i hear it all the time:
‘how much do you bench? …
what is your IQ? …
what is your annual salary? …
how many celebrities have you known in your lifetime? …
how many books have you published? …
are you really “bi”, or a half-closeted faggot? …
how big is your dick? …’

enough bullshit already!
let’s wrestle it down …
winner takes it all.

simply put:
you lose … you get fucked.

MY STRANGER … SO SWEET.

So sweet
are your suggested promises.
My stranger.
My unobtainable
moment of passion.
You coax me;
you cast me aside.
We can only have each other
in our leap-frog dreams:
both out-of-sync and yet
totally — oh so totally …
in syncopation.
The relentless fantasy is more
than the sum of reality’s
individual parts.
I see you everywhere;
in the gait of strangers …
in my memories.
Beginning from the
waist down …
easing toward the toes
and then quickly
darting upwards
to a fleeting and
indiscriminate
photographic flash
of your insignificant face.
My stranger.
My passion.
My stranger …
So sweet.