|by Jamie Joy Gatto|
eat a plum, I think of him. The black, blue-frosted fruit feels full
in my hands, cool. The ridge dividing it speaks to me of the delicate
split between his heavy, shaved balls. I can feel that ridge, remember
the lines with my tongue, find the place in my mind where the tactile sensations
of his sex are etched within me. I did not remember it so exactly
until now, holding this cold plum in my palm, rolling it warm.
I miss him. His scent and the way his whispers so near my lips are filled with the perfume of his mouth. And how the curl of his lips is so silly it always makes me smile. And how whatever he says won't matter if I'm looking at that curve, because once I catch that part of his smile, my mind locks into it and a little of me dies. I die happy. I go to heaven. I wake up, and he is still talking to me. I smile. He's still here. For now.
I scrape the dark, shiny surface of the fruit with my teeth and puncture the taut walls with my incisors. The yellow pulp, juicy and tart, fills my mouth with wetness and cold syrupy liquid. I feel his come fill my mouth, bitter and in hot, little spurts. I hear him moan. I hear his sort of sob. He always sounds as if he is crying when he comes. And I cry thinking of it. One happy little tear rolls down my face and joins in with the juice which seeps at the corner of my mouth, the taste of salt lost to the oh so sweet. The taste of him so much greater than the taste of me.
When I'm with him, it's
never enough. If I come I want to come again. If I see him, I want
to see him again. When I'm near him, I want to be nearer. I
want to be inside him when he is inside me. I want to have a cock
so I can fill his holes with my appendage, fill him up with a part of me.
Make him want me
When he suckles my breast, I want to feed him mother's milk, to nourish his soul, to make him be my baby, to keep him near me. Where is he tonight? Where is this man? This every man whom I miss every minute I do not have him near me. Just one man. One man of many. I love him. I think I love him. I think I love him more than the last one. More than the last one I needed so much.
I hate him. I am still hungry after I finish the fruit. I gnaw at the seed, the last of the pulp sticks greedily to it, not quite ready to feed me, but ready to feed the earth, to make more plum trees. It's never enough for me. Just one plum. One plum of many. One is never enough for me. As soon as it's begun, it is finished.
I eat a plum and think of him.
Copyright 2000 Jamie Joy Gatto. All Rights