collinkelley

COLLIN KELLEY

Physical Education
-- for David

I push my ass back against him,
feel his hand go slack at my throat,
subtle shifting of power as he grows
hard against my tighty-whiteys,
settling into unexplored crack,
we find empty locker room rhythm.

Before the coach returns,
he pinballs off the benches, struggles
into his too-tight Jordache jeans
and cable knit sweater, wet head
oozing through boxers, a bead
of sweat dangling off his nose.

I stand there watching, pious
in my t-shirt and Fruit of the Looms,
flaccid and un-aroused, lording
over his secret desires coaxed out
from behind year-old bully screen
and titty-twister fingers.

In PE he will never look at me again,
too busy hiding his sudden boner
from the other boys who jeer,
call him faggot, and I could save him
with one limp wrist, but this is junior high
and the smell of blood is in the air.

First Blackmail

I picked the movie Absence of Malice,
liked the way the title rolled off my tongue,
no spite in my heart in 1981.
I dragged poor goodie-two-shoes Tommy along,
my fill-in friend after Bruce turned to girls,
and we were bored and lost in the plot in 10 minutes,
even perky Sally Field couldn't keep our attention.

We played video games in the lobby,
until two girls caught Tommy's eye,
he turned on his Boy Scout charm,
like he was going for another badge,
seduced them with his Missile Command skills.
They giggled and gawked, ran in and out
of the theater, played hide and seek
until ushers shooed and shushed.

Tommy, dying to transcend upbringing,
hair on his chest at 13, wanted to finger fuck them,
one on each arm, a miniature playboy.
When he suggested getting naked in the bathroom,
the girls turned red and fled leaving Tommy
to rub his tented shorts, and I offered myself as substitute.
That's when Tommy got righteous, his lost religion
back with a vengeance, stronger than the need to lose cherry,
said he'd tell his mommy I was a pervert,
that I'd be banned from his basement and Star Wars toys.
I chanted "finger fuck, finger fuck, finger fuck"
as I unzipped him in the echoing stall, first blackmail
bouncing off the porcelain.

We rode home in silence in his parents' station wagon,
Tommy wanting to tell, rat out the ungodly,
his mouth opening and closing with silent confession,
while I hummed along to Linda Ronstadt's Hurt So Bad
on the radio, my lips testing new vocabulary,
the way the words absence of malice rolled off my tongue.

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