Sitting in our tutorial
Just me and Nick
Both surreptiously
Watching the seconds tick

"Kevin", Nick pauses,
I'm glad he's got something to say,
"What's it called when girls ****?"

OK, wasn't expecting that...

I ponder for a second
To consider my response
I'd quite like it if  I don't have to say the word '****' myself
Or any synonym.

Fortunately, spurred on by his youth,
Nick saves the day:
"Is it called *******?"

"Yeah I think either one would do
Now let's get back to this history,
Where did ****** bomb in 1942?"

So the lesson continues
Just Nick and me
Both surreptiously
Massively relieved


PS
Strictly speaking, '*******' is when someone else's hand is involved.
'To finger oneself' is the equivalent to *******.
I have no regrets that I failed to make this distinction at the time.

Part 2 (a few weeks later)

"Kevin, this might sound like a funny question, but
Have you heard of a camel-toe?"
Me: "er...No"

sublime
luminous
strum
showering
poppies and poodles
puppies and puddles
seeping
surreptiously,
stepping
starlight
into my soul

A woman with a tattoo
over the top of her *******

above her red dress got
on the uptown bus and

sat down. Henry tried not
to look, he couldn’t make

out the words that mingled
with the coloured flowers

tattooed there, looked away,
followed for a short while

the goings on in the passing
street, then turned again

and gazed surreptiously as
if he’d not intended to stare

or find once seen, but still
the words were lost in the

flowers’ hold. The woman
thumbed her cell phone,

messaging a text, while he,
giving a sidelong gaze, tried

to solve the puzzle of the
words and meaning that

she wanted to convey by
placing the tattoo there,

but no matter how hard
he looked or turned his head,

no sense was made, just
a puzzled aging brain instead.

She crossed her legs, a little
more thigh was shown, her

suntanned flesh too much
for eyes of Henry’s age, he

turned away, carrying the images
seen to sup upon another day.

As you rode through Paris
in the packed coach

the radio played
Beethoven’s Piano Concerto #5

and Mamie
sat beside you

her head to one side
sleeping

her mouth open
like some fish

out of water
her hands tucked

between her thighs
her blue skirt

riding high
and the slow movement

of the Beethoven piece
began

the piano playing softy
as the bright lights

of Paris
lit up

the dull space
inside the coach

and you closed your eyes
laying a hand

surreptiously
over hers

hearing the piano
and orchestra

as if in a dream
and Mamie

never minded
your hand

on hers
or so you thought then

and as now
it would seem.