He wanted to populate a world map of men who’d fucked him.
Kenya was already taken.
But I wanted to be on that map.
He was a librarian.
He had the strongest calves I’d ever seen.
I didn’t know what he wanted until several years after, a yielding I learned to take.
He was a church deacon.
He still fuels fantasies.
As though this is always the first time.
We keep discovering our rhythms.
The married schoolteacher who snuck out to find chocolate.
The grad student who liked sandwiches as long as they had mayonnaise.
There is a hunger that feeds.
What are you into?
And still I said no.
Not all hunger.
Some hunger feels less inviting.
One does not mind being a number. One minds being a particular kind of number.
The hunger of those who cannot remember, who will not remember, has never interested me.
The bus driver. The gym owner. The tight, the whisper, the groan, the pleading, the more, the traveling salesman, the trucker,
the one with the electric blue shorts from the 70s
The wet, the stretched, the used, the fragrant, the antiseptic, the belligerent, the hairy, the scratchy, the shaved, the never-again-but-scarcity, the available, the there, the now, the bent-over, the standing, the lying down, the un-faced, the too-faced, the daddy-caller, the wish-it-were-someone-else, the lights out, the tongue out, the
What do you like?
Who is hungry?