The First Time I Had Sex
The first time I had sex
was followed by
the second time I had sex.
Not the same night,
not the same locale.
The first time I had sex
was in a dorm room
on a twin mattress with
a boy needing to believe
he was fucking for mercy
from whoever it was
in his fair youth, who
held his fair youth
in a fist and crushed.
The first time I had sex
was fine in the done
and done sense. He said
Now you’re a woman.
I thought, Not your call.
The second time I had
sex I don’t remember.
Somewhere. Scattered
bedrooms, motels,
Pasadena, Silverlake Sunset.
One penis too big, another
so small I felt his terror.
I chose a piano player at a bar.
The man who gave me
the clap chose me.
I made out with a woman in
her car idling on a hill.
The emergency brake was
worrisome but her mouth was
smooth as familiar sheets
Dang, I was afraid.
There’s a moral here and it is:
Don’t be afraid.
Sex with men wasn’t awful.
Sex with women, ah, floral
in the night and leathery.
The moral here is:
Our bodies are soft foothills
in spring. The sun sends
its warmth to the grass greening
on soft foothills in spring.