I remember us writing porn together
before evenings out, our characters
in Tokyo: a mythical headless woman
wearing a helmet with a neck full of smoke
lures another woman into the shower—
a blond man dressed like a bartender
seduces a brunette man in a fur coat—
two young lovers bond over glasses fetish,
also known as meganekko, also known as
isn’t your girl the cutest when she’s both
brainy and vulnerable—add in a fivesome
of mermaids dancing in a nightclub tank—
add in a sixsome of centaurs in a nightclub
bathroom. All of this happens before sunrise,
and isn’t the sun such an attention whore
no one wants? The moon’s the real queen,
everyone, and bonus: she’s got attractive
sisters on other planets, ready for discovery.
I told you I was afraid of centaurs while we
wrote that scene—after watching that Axe
commercial about women’s pleasures—Pull
the shower curtain, honey, and your man’s got
horse legs, and it’s hilarious that I’m a Sagittarius.
I’m afraid of myself. Is that it? Or maybe it’s
what scares you the most also turns you on.
Or maybe it’s the idea that sex and horror
are the same thing: exposure and theatrics—
godly lighting or the worst camera of all time,
because there is no in between when it comes
to actual art. I remember you getting angry
when I kissed another girl friend at the bar
many moons ago, me and her pretending
to be tipsy on champagne, when we really
knew what we were doing, when the champagne
tasted like water at best, when I danced with her
the whole night, when you sulked—the exposure
and theatrics—the camera zoomed in on your face,
and what emotion tops confusion, anyway—
the horror and sex of it. I remember how years
later I went on a date with a man who was once
a porn writer in Hollywood. I laughed at him
the whole night. I’m sorry I never called you back.
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