Barbarism


I’m sorry for having sex with you: a confession, with a penis

I’m sorry for having sex with you. It wasn’t for us to have. I was so young and you were so excited. What could I have been thinking? Ah, yes: The way you looked in that blue satin dress, the rustle of the wind as it slid up your thighs—or were those my hands? It is hard, even now, in my pants—I mean, to remember. It is hard to remember. It was, after all, four days ago. The wind was a torrent of sauna swelter and all-American faces in sports jerseys, defiant with their beers and lacrosse sticks, encircling me. We stood together, held as if in aspic, gelatinous and gooey. Perhaps it was only a dream.

No, I remember your penis. All five of them. Or is that just my wishful memory multiplying your manhood in accordance with my insatiably Medusan desires? Or did you have a disease? Perhaps it was the fault of the 90-degree summer heat swiveling its wormy way through my brain’s blood vessels and down into my penis. Yes, that’s it. Perhaps it was the heat’s fault and not mine for undressing you with the lazars that flashed out of my eyes and loving you with my baby toes as they curled around your earlobes in that bar in my old neighborhood, that bar on the rough side of town. Do you remember? This is how I remember you: Sweaty, shifty-eyed, academic, with so much to give but with such an unattractive way of giving it. You allured and displeased me just enough to force you into my uterus.

You reminded me of myself when I was younger and freer; more easily won over by words and their weavings together in sentences. Syntax, funny stuff, stuff that wasn’t funny. It wasn’t my style. It wasn’t my place to take you away. I should have left you to merry-make with your friends. I shouldn’t have called for you across the length of that empty parking lot and wrapped you up in my arms, pressing you against the jangly, rickety barbed-wire fence, before hoisting you up on that window ledge and wrapping your lissome legs around my manly, tool belt-heaving waist. I shouldn’t have done any of it. But my loins were not my own that night. They were the object of the Earth—I mean your mouth; earth, mouth, earth, mouth. You had an aspect I couldn’t understand. You had an attitude I could only fantasize about silencing with my penis. You, and only you—by which I mean your penis—could temporarily quell the unease that has resulted from my current precarious state, i.e. my career being in shambles (I don’t know if I should go back to school for an MFA or PhD in Clinical Psychology), my near-future living situation unsecured (a nice park-proximate $800 studio really shouldn’t be so hard to finagle), my habitual unemployment check at some point ceasing and my cat not going on forever. And yet! That night, that luscious, penis-flinging night, we shared something; something special, something raw, something that wasn’t satisfying but left me feeling accomplished. And hungry. And jittery. And I apologize.

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