I have begun to believe

in all sorts of things like: Rush.

For a moment, I am slutty.

The malodorous fumes slinking

across my muscles seductively open

my pupils to my anything-but-milquetoast

body sizzling on this bed, burning

with each drip of saliva from his

unpursed lips. My sex

is being tolled in his mouth.

The more uncertain I become,

the more precise his tongue

slices, like a surgeon. The lavender

comforter is my God. Embraced softly,

I leave.