Tonight I attended a poetry reading at my college. At the event, certain poetry students were given the opportunity to share their work. Much to my surprise, I discovered that one of the poets, a former companion of mine, had written a poem about me. After the reading she e-mailed it to me at my request.
Fetish
You asked, hungry,
fingers brushing denim worn soft,
Do your thighs rub together,
just a little bit,
right here?
Instead of revulsion,
I nodded
and fed you truth:
fat is what you like.
I accommodate.
These are the little odd
intimacies between us.
I stared straight
into your crooked gaze.
I let you worship.
It was an interesting experience, introducing her to a preference she hadn't been familiar with. Tonight she decided to share part of that experience with hundreds of captivated listeners. I clapped.
Fetish
You asked, hungry,
fingers brushing denim worn soft,
Do your thighs rub together,
just a little bit,
right here?
Instead of revulsion,
I nodded
and fed you truth:
fat is what you like.
I accommodate.
These are the little odd
intimacies between us.
I stared straight
into your crooked gaze.
I let you worship.
It was an interesting experience, introducing her to a preference she hadn't been familiar with. Tonight she decided to share part of that experience with hundreds of captivated listeners. I clapped.
