Suck 101

I used to think I'd be loved
because of my ability to give a good blow job.

There were simply some boys
whose essences I craved like water:
the haunting curve of a collarbone,
a delectable jaw line,
the satiny trail of hair leading down to a groin
could make tears spring to my eyes,
my stomach surge with love.

There is nothing like the feel
of a silken shaft in your mouth,
the heart-beat throb massaging your tonsils.
I'd weigh their engorged testicles
like bags of gold in my palms,
pausing to bathe those swollen plums in saliva,
my reward more harsh, visceral groans.

I learned through some deep and corrupt part
of myself to out-dance my own womb:
the slick tug and contraction,
pushing and pulling at their clenched buttocks
tantalizingly, building to a slow, rhythmic fervor.

I never understood why some women gagged.
I was always thirsty for more, the hot sting
of lather anointing the back of my throat,
thick and salty-sweet as I stared in rapture at their faces,
etched in stark, brutal clarity as they came.

But I think they resented that absorption,
that one-sided osmosis. I think
they would have preferred to spill their seed
onto the grass in that heartbreaking fist-jerking action
than give me such an integral part of themselves.

It took me years to learn that men
prefer a sort of chasteness which they can conquer,
beguile into willingness.

Alas, I was always too hungry.
I still am.