It still embarrasses me
any time I think about
Tommy Dunn and 7th grade,
that party he took me aside
and tried to explain how to kiss
with not too wet lips pressed
softly, slightly open and never
sucking like some high powered
vacuum cleaner. I probably
nodded, quickly moved to another
part of the basement, before
he brought up tongues
and what I was supposed to do
with mine while everyone thought
we were homos or something
nearly as awful. But no,
I was just slow and liked
baseball cards and snowball
fights better than girls. I kept
glancing at Regina, Geraldine
and Clare sitting against the wall.
Whispering behind their hands,
giggling. For years I jerked off
picturing one of them walking
across the room, taking my hand,
leading me to an upstairs bedroom
and teaching me everything.

I thought of Dunn a couple
of years ago. An ex-girlfriend
was flying into the city visiting
her sick parents every chance
she could and spending as many
hours in my bed as possible.
We kissed and kissed until
we fell back in love, whispered
about her filing for divorce.
At the same time an unhappy
woman half my age was calling
a few times a day, sneaking away
three or four times a week
from a boyfriend too busy
and bored to touch and kiss
her like I did. She kept telling me
I was handsome, saying
she was completely in love
with me and how she wanted to
to leave Bill. I imagined Dunn
living somewhere in Texas,
working in finance with thinning
red hair and a roly-poly build.
He was on his second marriage
and couldn’t stop worrying
about his sad, quiet kids.
I wanted to sit on a stoop
in Queens with him, talk
about the few things I learned
and somehow found myself
believing in, why I still wished
Suzanne and Erica missed
kissing me and what the hell
he thought was wrong with me.