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.