Even Though I Don't Remember Your Name

I remember the first time I saw you
that dusk in the apartment complex pool
in Tucson and the way your supple ass
and dimpled thighs caught the light
as you lifted yourself out that made my cock
hard when I imagined what my jism would
look like running down the back of your
legs as you stood naked at your bathroom mirror
to fix your hair and makeup.  Alone in the water
I jerked myself off and watched the milky clouds
of spunk puff out of my cock like a derelict
smokestack towering from a refinery of desire.

I don't know how many women I've been with but
it's gotta be somewhere near fifty.  Between the
drunken fucks and the whores back when I was eighteen
nineteen and twenty cruising the nightworlds of
those broke-ass California desert cities like Corona
and Riverside and San Bernardino, where the fruit of
human trade is harvested by razors and cheap pocket
pistols and the bacterial traffic of motel blowjobs
misted me with an even cheaper fever, waiting for
streetwalkers to smoke their rocks before they
unzipped me and drained my load straight down
their wretched slattern gullets, it's easy to lose
count and numbers in the end don't matter much.

But you were the only one who ever called me
over because I was the only one who knew how
to make you come.  I was twenty-five and your
little peckerhead desert dirtbike boyfriends only knew
how to poke and fuck.  But I licked your labia
and sucked your clit until you bucked and shook
so hard I had to hold you down and you pushed my
head away and a strand of your honey that ran
from your cunt to my chin was the only
thing left to link us before I climbed
on to thrust myself in and I'd get so hot
I'd only last a minute before I pulled out
and fired one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight
thick, pearly charges of sperm onto your belly
and heavy pink tits.  Oh goddamn goddamn, I'd pant.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

I wish you'd quit being Catholic by then and
had gotten on the pill so I could fill your
womb with a hot galaxy of spastic cells
I could watch dribble and run down the
backs of your legs when you stood naked
at the bathroom mirror to fix your hair and
makeup.  There was the Virgin on your dresser,
watching me defile you as she stood on the snake.
There was your faith already drifting away
when I told you how the Romans fixed the legs
of the crucified so that when they expired their
forced erections would climax as one swift
final public humiliation, and that even Christ
in his last rattled breath spewed forth the milk
of beautiful agony while his Virgin Mother wept
with Saint Veronica and the Dago soldiers shot
dice for his purple cloaks.    

Can you come over? you asked.
Why?
You know.
Tell me why.
Because you're the only one who knows how.
Who knows how to what?
You know.
Tell me.  Be specific.
Who knows how to make me come.
When was the last time you got fucked?
What does that matter?
Answer me!
All right. Yesterday.
He fill you up?
[This after you started on the pill]
Why?
Did he?
Yes.
Then I want you to douche yourself.
What?
I want you to douche yourself good before
I come over in thirty minutes.
Why?
Because I'm gonna be sucking your twat
and I don't want some little desert
dirtbag's splooge leaking into my
mouth on the runoff of pussyjuice
that spills when you come.
And I hung up.

And I never did get to watch myself
run down your legs because by then
you'd learned how to give head and after
I finished making you flash sometimes
three times in a row, I lay back and let
you suck me off until I exploded a hot
wash of saltwater into your mouth and drained
my load down your throat.