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Friends don’t fuck, your father claimed. True, perhaps,

though I don’t know what else to call these acts

 

of ours, waiting for your school bus. Relapse?

Bare backsliding? Snu-snu? I’d say that facts

 

argue that friends do, often, savagely.

I might be a corrupting influence …

 

though your fascination with sodomy

started long before, you claim. The fragrance

 

of sweat, cum and new knowledge fills the air,

your sheets all splotched. Once I swore that I’d end

 

it with you … the way that all addicts do.

Now I lapse, gaily. Now I just don’t care

 

what your father thinks. True, you are my friend

as well as why I love all that’s taboo.