"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let alone hold “outdated” ideas of feminism.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.