Everybody loves *****,
they tell you it's wrong
to call it that:
*****.
My mother
slapped me in the face
when she realized
I was thinking about it.
I was five.
She caught me
sticking my hands
down my pants
handling the soft
warm muscle of myself,
as Jeri Ryan
spoke cold and hard
to me
from the cargo hold
of the U.S.S. Voyager.
Jeri's ****
were so hard and stoic
in that grey spandex,
and a slight *******
took hold of my hand
and my body cooled
and warmed at the same time.
When I was fifteen,
I first felt one,
a *****.
It made itself known
through a hole
full of wetness
and stink
in Mary's bebe jeans.
Mary,
was a puerto-rican girl
who smelled like marlboros
and perfume.
She talked about bubble baths.
I took my finger
and ran it through the
rough fabric
until i felt her.
I felt her pelvic bone,
and a soft, giving
rubber of human flesh
on the tip of my finger.
In the movie theatre I searched
until I felt an infinity of giving
an indention in the soft flesh
of breathing warmth and maximum.
With a whole world
in tow,
the lander of my finger
slowly entered a wet,
sticky atmosphere
poking, prodding,
returning
and re-entering
this wet,
fishy-syrupy smelling
world.
"I can feel your *****," I whispered.
"Don't call it that." she hummed back.
