There was 1 when I was nine,
4 by the time I hit thirteen.
I could say it was my father’s fault
For introducing me to General Hospital first.

When they kissed, I wiggled away from
Him, but secretly took copious mental notes:

Tilt head, close eyes, open mouth, and suck.

From nine to thirteen I worked my way up to

Tilt head, graze neck, kneel down, do something
The cameras wouldn’t show, lean in, flick
And kiss
(That was the word for suck.).

And at thirteen and a half, when I first learned
What orgasms really were (notb sneezes
From your bellybutton like they told
Me in grade school) – daytime TV showed me

That we had ones every time – maybe two.
Bodies looked like cream sculptures
And nobody smelled bad.
Most importantly, no one ever went
To the bathroom.

So at fourteen, I kissed my teddy bear’s plastic
Snout; I flicked, tilted my head, kissed.

I put a cylinder-shaped pillow between my legs
And rubbed.
That was my idea. Friction was our friend.

But no matter how hard I tried,
Sometime during the night
I had no choice but to pee
And so I padded to the bathroom
Saw my rumpled hair, my potted acne
tasted my nighttime breath.

And I guessed I wasn’t made to take a lover.

02/05/2005

Posted on 02/05/2005
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky