Sitting on an expensive chair,
bare feet not touching the floor,
feeling like the little boy I am and always will be,
even after I’m gone.
There will be no man gone.
Only The Boy.
That is what my mother called me.
Everything was “For The Boy.”
At the grocery store,
shopping for my favorite microwavable breakfast treat,
when she found the product sold out she
issued a plaintive entreaty,
to all concerned:
“It’s for The Boy.”
Responses were swift.
“It’s for The Boy?
Oh, here, take mine.”
Others produced coupons for free breakfast treats,
redeemable wherever said product was sold.
Everyone understood The Boy,
those Two Words communicating relevance,
importance, sanctimonious seniority.
I cannot let my feet touch the ground.
Air circling the bottoms feels too sweet,
the breath of a lover exploring every inch of me
as I do the same for her.
I feel the breath of her skin,
breath of small breezes cast by her motions.
Even her thoughts breathe.
Every piece of her inhales, gasps, tastes.
We joke about our first moments together,
in her doctor’s office,
how she got me naked immediately,
faster than any woman I’d ever known.
It is still that way.
Immediate sex.
Mechanical sex.
Motionless. Hyperventilated. Suffocating.
All of it for The Boy.
She showers loudly.
I touch my feet to the floor,
satisfied by the sounds of her
washing me out of her hair.
