Lust Thrust Thursdays: The X-Men, Fucking. Poems.

Mike Tager Used to Masturbate to Jean Grey

When I was 12, I masturbated
For the first time, in my
Grandmother’s bathroom,
Over the pages of X-Men #261

At age 13, I touched a penis
For the first time
(Not my own). It felt odd
As we pretended
To be Cyclops and Phoenix

In ‘94
I was 14 and I saw Jessica Rabbit–
Tall busty, cartoon redheads
Look the same–and I
Touched myself that night

Only one of those stories is true,
But I’m 36
And I still have a thing
For Jean Grey

Hence these poems.
About the X-Men.
Fucking.

Is It Self-Love?

Madrox, the Multiple Man,
creates identical duplicates
when struck,
no zygote-splitting needed

His multiples
are way more identical
than those Mendoza twins
or Ashley and Mary-Kate

So I wonder.
When Madrox slaps his dick
and another version of himself appears
to take over from there,
is it masturbation,
or is it the most perfect
self-love existing?
The kind of self-love
that defies description–
like what’s beyond the event
horizon or why Madrox is
a B-list mutant, when he’s so much more.
Or why I still feel guilty
when I take over for myself
It makes no sense, like how
O-Town was a B-list
boy band when they should have been
so much less

Fun fact:
O-Town currently hosts a show on
Sirius XM.

Just like 40 percent

Sugah, after you left our workout
session, I waited on fluid-soaked
tile, dreaming of your velvet soft fur
luxuriant on my hot, sweaty torso,
a body I can barely cont
rol when you’re near. Danger leaked away,
the oil and debris of monsters and men
swept, tidied.
I should have laid my aching flanks in my own sheets.

Instead I laid, a Night
Crawler, touching myself over visions of
you, son of my
adopted mother. We’re nearly family.

(Did you know that forty percent of all porn
is just this, but more perverse?)
I share no blood;
She was no mother to you,
sharing only tinged-epidermis
and malleable bone.

Us fucking is only as weird as we make it.

I lay there,
thinking of your hard, rigid, long and dextrous
tail. What can you do with that thing?
Can you whip this Rogue? Can you wrap
around my neck, squeeze just right?
Can you . . .

The door opened and for a second
when my nakedness saw blue
my throat and cont-
rolled nethers were one with my heart.
But it wasn’t you, my acrobat, only the beastly
version of you. But blue? Gymnast? Fangs?

I’m all dressed down; nowhere else
to go.
Close enough.

 

Michael B. Tager is a writer and editor. He is wary of bears. Read more of his work at michaelbtager.com or find him at @ideosinkrasee. 

Gem Blackthorn is QMT's Sex Columnist, and the author/curator of Lust Thrust Thursdays. Send her your submissions and questions at sexsexsex [at] queenmobs.com

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