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Stars In Your Pocket Like You Picked Them Up And Put Them There

You wear the air of the sexually approachable without ever realising it might mean you're approached. Look at him, all his long lean limbs and raphaelite curls and his eyes holding yours. Oh you are no child, no young one, the birds of your youthful dawning have long since chirped their awakening, but the clouds of your discontent are yet to brew their storm. This is your day, and it is not a day for thrift-shop trousers no matter how shiny they seem under starlight.

What depth he sees in your eyes, he wants to climb out of the darkness behind his own and into yours; that is what your eyes say, come to me, come on me, come on, come on. His fingers find the space between your waistband and your skin, touch dark mellow as drunken wine, hair a veil; lick into his mouth and find there a smoke-bound frontier you never crossed before, of stubble touching your lips, a fire in your belly burning all bridges, of denim and lust. Who cares who he is, what he could be? You're an obliging lad; he can be nothing more than your first, tender and fumbling and desperate.

This could have hurt you, if you cared to be hurt.

You smile against his cheek, you laugh into his mouth. Thin-lipped, you are, but his are warm and strange, lipstick touched lushness, tell him hopefully blow job lips. You've a cheek, he tells you gravely, fondling yours. No gamin or androgyne or wistful wordy creature descended from the gods or monsters above; you're a lad with red in your cheeks and sparkle in your eyes and all through your hair because you put it there; he's rough and you tumble, and there's laughing for the bruises from the both of you.

Without a glam-and-clash spotlight, you discover nevertheless how to hold your audience's attention. Bow, child no more, flourish your triumph of rouge and velvet. The music fades through backstage stone walls, but, my lad, you wield your sexuality like a sparkling sword, you laugh as you slice each coming stone, every word that ever wounded or confused, into dust! - glittering stars! - into shimmering glass shards spraying champagne into the air, this is a celebration! They warned and warned you, threatened with outcomes, never again. But the abjuration never comes, leaving only the longing, again. Again. You'll walk down the street with your hand in his pocket; you don't give a damn what they're going to call you. Lick your sexuality from your lover's impossible lips and find the taste satisfies all you ever wondered about what you could be; sexual, warm and strong and longing, no prefix or poetry required but a crying out now, yes, now.

After, you lie on your back, singing a song that isn't one of Bowie's, kicking your heels. He listens, tells you not to quit your day job, strokes your belly. An eyelash curls on his cheek, a shooting star up above; such a waste, where there is no immediate need for wishes.

December 2011

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