Tender, but tight enough. With rope, with cord,
with a leather belt. Tension in the knot.
Tension in the promise of being gored,
impaled, ruined. Danger of being caught
with clots of cum in your hair. Your father
downstairs. Your kid brother in the bathroom.
That’s not what we want from this mad venture.
In those calm moments as we pant, the bloom
of our bright ecstasy fading from our
eyes, our grins both daft and dear, I know that
everything has changed. We’ll rise from our tryst
with queer new hungers for worlds to devour.
You will sigh. I will kiss your “baby phat”
tattoo and slowly untie your clenched fist.