"A" for effort

You. He told me.
You are the nerdiest nymphomaniac I ever encountered.
He told me the words I chose to speak and the topic of conversation was all Greek to him,
that he couldn’t understand why any woman would read poetry,
let alone hold “outdated” ideas of feminism.
He wasn’t the deepest, most seasoned lover I’d had.
Sometimes he wasn’t sure where his hands should caress, or how his tongue should press against my...lips.
Sometimes my hips would ask him if he could move just a little bit to the left,
and sometimes he understood,
and sometimes he didn’t.
Sometimes he’d say, “hey! Slow down up there!”
And I’d say, “hey! You’re so slow down there!”
Most of the time he moved to his own rhythm, and that was okay with me, as long as he,
you know,
respected the outcome.
And the outcome was always slightly better than average, but it was never that clenched-fist, muscle-spasm, bury-head-in-pillow-for-fear-of-waking-the-neighbors’-neighbors
kind of orgasm,
But it was dependable.
It was that little, black dress in the back of your closet that always feels flattering,
and that book,
that book you’ve read over and over and the pages are falling out,
but it always takes you to the same, wonderful place.
See, I didn’t care that he needed direction as to where to put his....erecti....hands,
because I was his professor, and criticism was something he could surely withstand.
So I gave him an A for effort,
not because he made up in coordination what he lacked in experience,
but because there is always praise to be given for passionate persistence.

My God

I saw this man standing on the fountain at my school,
He was yelling at passers-by and shaking his bible in the air like a weapon of war.
His imposing, roar of a voice was getting rather heated by the time I passed by in my tie-dye and jeans, my brown eyes met his
and I smiled without thinking, (mistake of the century).
He cried, “Sinner! You need some saving!”
My God, that’s strange, I don’t feel as if I’m drowning, or choking, burning in a pit of hot lava, being trampled to death by a herd of wildebeests. I feel...good.
I said, I appreciate your concern, sir, but I’m simply not sure that I agree.
Because the God you shriek of is all fire and brimstone, spiting and smiting, judgment, deprivation, drip some water on your head and you’re granted salvation...my god.
You preach of exclusions and black and white with no grey in between.
How can that be, sir?
Your God tells you to shun the Jews, the Muslims, the Buddhists, the gays, the gay-supporters, the pro-choice-ers, the feminists, the liberals, the evolutionists, the trans-gendered, the women who work too much, the men who don’t work enough, the divorced, the free-thinkers.
Sir, I don’t mean to sound combative, or at all as though I have this insight into His nature within the scope of my worldly understanding.
All I can convey is my consciousness and the
God that visits me at night.
I’m not saying you’re wrong and I’m right,
because the realities we see are molded by our experiences
and maybe I’ve been more fortunate than you.
But the God I know is all peace and kindness.
Not tolerance, but acceptance with open arms.
He’s warm and natural, greens and blues and purples and reds.
He smells like a baby’s soft skin, and rain and wind,
and the perfume my mother wears only on special occasions.
He tastes like a lovers’ kiss, wild raspberry stains on my fingertips,
and chocolate chip pancakes with whip cream faces.
The God I know records no wrongs on His Blackberry with a petty vengeance, no.
He’s always on love’s side.
I find my God in the strangest places. Not in cathedrals or mosques, or masses or sermons, no. But, on a flight to Miami and the woman next to me is flying to the funeral of her young sister and I hugged mine just last week.
Or in a mother saying good-bye to her son, a Marine, and she’s so damn proud but scared as hell this may be the last time they’ll speak.
You see, sir, your description and mine could not be more disparate,
my God is all tender touch and compassion,
not discrimination and prohibition.
My God is
love,
sir.

My Breasts

My breasts.
My knockers, my funbags,
my titties, my ta-tas,
My love lumps, my love muffins,
My hooters, my jugs,
My boobies, my girls,
My melons, my chi-chis,
My bosoms, my sweater puppets,

My breasts.
See, my mammaries have been displeased
With all these pen names they’ve been forced to work under.
My chest is distressed from this mess of misnomers it’s been cloaked in.
These euphemisms created by my male counterparts, such an art, guys, really,
but I think you’re missing my meaning.
See, I’m no angry feminist hating on men, but you guys need some pointers,
so please take this in.
Boys...my breasts aren’t your play toys but I invite you to enjoy them
if you promise to adore them and not try to hoard them as your own and please don’t pinch them, or rub them so hard they feel like they’ll fall off!
They’re attached, you know!
Don’t go back and forth and back and forth, no woman wants that course of action,
get some sense!
Don’t suck and suck like your mother’s teat,
you’ve been weaned too long to be holding on to some Freudian notion of juvenile pleasure.
Don’t yell at me from across the street, “Nice rack!”
Did I ask for your approval? I’m very aware of the...qualities I possess.
And if you think that your crudeness is cool to your cronies please reconsider that your words are just bitter perversions of desire,
cause you KNOW you can’t have ME.
Don’t think I don’t notice you staring me down in the grocery line and pretending to reach for a magazine so you can lean in to see in my cleavage.
Don’t think I won’t pop you one right in the kisser, cause mister this sister has HAD it with men who think my self-esteem is pieced together with poor pick-up lines and honks from your dodge neon, PLEASE!
I used to think that my breasts gave me power over men,
I could tower over men in my five foot three frame because I became the master,
But I was all wrong, see, 'cause I won’t be a woman who uses her body as a weapon against the male species,
I want to use my body for running, for dancing, for hugging, for lov-ing.
My breasts aren’t ME.
They’re a part of me that happens to be made fabulously.
But that doesn’t give you free reign to ogle and fondle,
and openly express your judgment on how I must be eas-y 'cause all you see’s a great pair of
breasts.