(You ask what I want.
I cannot tell you: Catholic upbringing, New England prudery,
a habit of silence combine to smother the words.
So write it, you say.)
I want everything, you see.
Men and women
indoors and out
top and bottom and sideways
to come screaming in a deserted forest
so that the only creatures startled are the deer.
More than a little bit of an exhibitionist.
stripping away the layers
the flimsy chiffon covering of propriety
leaving me gloriously naked to a stranger’s fevered gaze.
I tease them shamelessly walking down the street
in cut-off jeans and minimal tank, hair swinging.
I make them wonder as they read my words
stare at the screen
(wonder if this is me; wonder if it is only a poem).
Riding the power trip
to its heights
(and I will taste the depths)
tied down so all I can do is strain against the black silk
blindfolded, so I don’t know whether you will lick a nipple next
spank me until I’m sore and screaming
begging for more.
I am not quite as brave as I would wish, but if I could
I would risk getting caught on the quads at night.
I would have two men at once, maybe three.
I would be fucked until I pass out.
I would have sex with someone without knowing whom it is.
I would do all the shameful things a good Catholic girl
should never, ever think of.
And I would tell you about it.
July 28, 1993