Flint – Long Beach Island ‘88
She’d seen it done in one of her dad’s pornos. She showed me
the scene on the basement TV: grainy VHS, one man and his Casio.
She was curious if not exactly aroused, trusted me enough, or
maybe knew my answer already, to ask would I like to? With her?
Giggling a little slathering on KY jelly because she’d read in Penthouse
or Mary Beth up at Drew University had told her she’d need lots
of KY Jelly, say half a tube, probably more for her first time.
And then she lay back on the beach towel she’d brought
downstairs like this was a vacation: Long Beach Island ‘88.
Lifting her knees a little she glistened.
We were done talking by then and she guided me in
like a tide. I wanted her, wanted it.
This beautiful brave blonde girl with the buzz cut.
Smarter than the boys and knew it, always looking
for something not there, like she was that night, like she
might find it inches deep inside her, hidden like a gem.
I am not a small man and wasn’t a small boy either and
at the first honest push her face thinned and she said, oh, pain!
But when I stopped she said, no go, go on. And soon with all
the lube I was sawing if not pumping and her eyes rolled like dice.
Just months later she would abruptly leave me for the same
Mary Beth, which made sense even if I couldn’t say so then.
But that autumn night at 17 years old we would be new lovers
forever and no matter what you see in the pornos
or how your girlfriends scold, a buttfuck on an old beach towel in a
cold suburban basement can be beautiful as the moon.