This whiteness is an embarrassment.
It slaps me with the cold memory of the toilet tiles and those secluded moments of abandon when bodies are only concerned with bodies.
The real intercourse within these walls is not lightweight. It lacks sterility.
Contacts are always weighed down. Literally, by the book satchels hanging down the backs of college boys, the computer bags down the sides of some IT geeks, the shaving kits of urban soldiers who just happened to pass by the mall today.
Figuratively, we are pulled down by the weight of our loads: the fear that some ugly mall guard will suddenly crash into this unspoken chewing of the cud, that some straight brats (with a kinky show of flesh, some are not so straight after all) will enter the scene with their bad words about the brotherhood.
But, you ask me, why is it an embarrassment?
Because nobody wants to speak of it.
It’s only in poems where you get to read about them.
Chances are you don’t even have access to smut.
No comments:
Post a Comment