A First Time at Rage
THEIR SPLATTER of sweet sweat coats your flesh
like a blitzkrieg of pheromoned rain,
this warehouse floor of dancing male marionettes,
slippery chisel of bare pecs writhing serpentine
beneath the thump of disco lights.
The only sweat you create is your palms
gripping the wall-rail tighter than ivy-choked-trellis.
Sixteen-year-old Trespasser you
in view of male hands dawdling near the hem of male pants for the very first time.
Your tingled nerves peering into a world
your closet door allowed no peephole for.
The shy part of you feeling smaller by a stool
of half-drunken cosmopolitans,
near groups of men huffing cigarettes
in the outdoor patio,
discussing careers and politics and Y2K
in the midst of your Axe body spray
drowning out the icy-sleek musk
of their Hermes Equipage.
The exhilarated part of you determined to belong
to the sway of bodies dancing to Eiffel 65
with reckless abandon.
And then a slip of fingertip and tendon caressing your neck
from a stranger man,
peppery Marlboro breath whispered
from his face umbered by the neon of the light,
the crackle of vodka and ice in a tumbler he hands you
an invitation to dance.
The twisted thrill of a smile on your face
when you drink up and follow him, hand-in-hand,
into the crowd of shadows and light.