cunnilingus, erotic poetry, gay club, gossamery, Paris Gayety, Peace Corps, poem, Poetry, proclivity, sonnet
Paris. Twelve hour lay-over. Last gay club
before Peace Corps. “You’re gossamery,” she said.
“I like that in boys … Call me your Arab
Auntie.” O weird drag name, I thought, my head
between her thighs. And, because I was stoned
on cheap spliffs and she was Anaïs Nin cool
and I’d dreamed of being left unchaperoned
with a wolfish adult (“Primary School
Climax.” “School Bus Orgy.” “I was Seven
before I was Ate.”), her clit felt scrumptious
under my tongue. How queer, a real auntie
in this rank Men’s Room. One last Parisian
surprise before a world where lush lewdness
was less, “proclivity,” and more theory.