From 2300 miles away, I hear the slapping sound
of your fist against your thigh, as you
reminisce about that winter night when
you squirted whipped cream in my ass.
Due to a dairy allergy, I insisted that it be vegan.
You, ever eager, went to the co-op
and paid an exorbitant price for pleasure:
mostly yours. I felt like a car with a too-full tank
spilling gasoline from its insertion hole.
I fantasize about your mouth
on my nipples, the time you slid your cock
between my lubricated breasts,
your spilled ejaculate across my chest.
My whispered assurance that the lotion was organic.
Ten years later, I own a different bottle
of organic lotion, and I rub it between my legs
with brisk motions, until finally I come
in oceanic undulations, minutes before
my cell phone battery dies.
Fifteen percent charge means I must
make the most of my orgasm.
We have a knack for climaxing together,
even across three time zones.
Afterwards, we speak in familiar tones,
as you lie in the puddle of your own effluvium,
just as you did when we were together.
It’s both comforting and sad,
the after-sex intimacy of long-distance lovers,
two sets of genitals in solitary rooms.
I tell stories about old paramours, and you listen:
your ears wide open, relaxed as my vagina,
damp and glistening on my living room chair.
Our beds finally claim what is left of our bodies.
Both of us will plug our phones into sockets,
then fall asleep on separate mattresses.
This is the way we have always been.
We will never be any different.