scribbled out doodles in the margins
junior high 69 dreams are just that
dreamzzz
69 this
69 that
youth throw it around like a Pog slammer
aimless and bruising
somebody needs to tell these kids
69in’ commands respect
nothing more than a t-shirt design, a punchline
an answer they hope to see written out on the chalk board in math class
the day arrives for all these jack a’s
the humbling
i take it back because ya know, for some,
that day never arrives
for aggressive dude bros seeking it out???
prize-winning state fair humble pie
of this i am certain
i fell somewhere in-between
reached 19yrs before managing any kind of sex
24yrs before my maiden 69 voyage,
a whole decade+ since junior high and all those jokes
respect
rented out a friend’s tree house bnb for a week to escape the city
she initially broached it kinda jokingly (just like back in junior high)
but as the conversation carried forward a sound bit of reasoning crystalized:
what have we to lose?
“standing up?”
“think we can manage?”
“little margin for error in this arboreal abode.”
“fuck it. when in treehouse, right?”
“when in treehouse.”
clutched her hips from standing position and attempted to rotate her entire body
failure ensued
tripped-up on her stickered-up Nalgene bottle,
we both slowly plunged to the floor
“sorry! sorry! are you okay? shit, i’m so sorry babe.”
she couldn’t stop laughing and
after my initial concern for her well-being,
neither could i
“lying down?”
“yes, lying down.”
we awkwardly positioned ourselves on the bed missing the mark(s)
top half of ass cheek bounced off my eye
her nose went spelunking inside my cavernous belly button
“try again?”
“yes, try again.”
while aiming to reposition i discovered our treehouse kitchen came equipped with a toaster oven
“wait a sec. what the? why the hell would anyone operate a toaster oven inside a treehouse?”
“is it unplugged?”
“hold on a sec, let me check.”
it was unplugged
“ready?”
“yes, ready.”
“focused?
“yes, focused.”
an unbreakable Red Rover defensive-duo,
we at last locked our bodies into position
some small measure of time elapsed
before we caught each other’s reflection in the toaster oven’s chrome
our eyes fixated there as we sustained a symbiotic rhythmic bliss
leaves anchored by acorns gently coasted down, shelling the frail rooftop
squirrels danced under the moon to our nighttime song
a transcendent show of respect
Prewitt Scott-Jackson writes Dad poetry & short fiction. True to form, Scott-Jackson prefers *short* walks on the beach because - and I quote - "It's really hard to walk on sand." Twitter: @allsalinitylost
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 Image: Louise Leclerc