How many parts of how many drive-in movies on
how many weekends had I missed after you had
taken your square-heeled shoes off and unbuttoned and
untucked your shirt from your baggy jeans, and then
propped your feet (midnight blue socks) on the dashboard?
Despite the homophobic prejudices of that time and place,
I wanted to kiss your bare torso (especially those
prominent circlets of pleasure), to receive the profuse
surges of your sweetness at either the north or south
entrances (so long as your inner core's confection
became a permanent part of me). Then quickly and
urgently followed my desire to enjoy---revel in---the
fragrance and flavor of your unshod socks that clung
provocatively to the contours of your feet; and to
thrust against that soft, warmed fabric until my lofter
launched on to it seven surges of glistening streaks like
meteors' contrails upon summer's starlit skies. Too
often too many craven hesitations gathered to prevent and
obstruct my expression of the love I wanted to give you---
love you so worthily deserved, despite the objections of my
parents and their neighbors who thought they knew you ("his
"kind and that love are, quite obviously, unacceptable")
better than I did. Ancient love poets, homophiles, and the
even more ancient stars declared tacitly the privilege of
admitting my feelings to you; and having failed the given
access to intimacy in that compact car's compartment that
night in that drive-in theater, in the time we were together,
I have only these gathered words now that we have been
forced apart . . . .
J-Called