Men don't talk about sex
with other men.
They crow, allude, prattle, joke, banter.
But this isn't talk.
Their questions rise
when they watch porn,
but the sex is an act
by women for men who stand stupid
and receive.
So men ask the women they love,
as they lie body to body
in bed, about other men.
They feel no shame unless
they see doubt in her face.
They ask of size and style,
feeling blindly for the norm,
the public standard,
that seems to exist
for everything in life
but this. Is there a mean
for beauty? Yet men know, deep down,
if they are handsome or ugly,
rich or poor, short or tall,
bright or dim.
They want to prevail,
not endure, so they ask:
Did he go fast or slow, rough or easy?
Did he bite, push, squeeze, lick, strut, tease?
Was he good?
Her answers warm their curious hearts,
for a moment, as they compare
themselves with him.
But they can't see him without seeing her.
Their hearts tighten, minds swirl
in slow rage around the dance
of that man and their woman.
They want to beat them both.
They roll over and lie flat,
fury and pity leaking
from their ears.
Every man from her past surrounds
the bed, taunting the man
who had to ask,
a street gang mocking a preacher's son.
Her back tenses; she hates
his cowardice in this place
where she, too, has fears.
She believes it was a set up
to get her to confess.
But it was no trick.
Men don't know how to get closer
to themselves without women.
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