Jon Doughboy

Poppie

I want to write a poem about losing my virginity, not the erotic awkward momentousness of the act, but the one second where I’m on the mattress of a creaky fold-out couch in this tiny, dingy studio with the radiators hissing and I’ve already come once before even entering this young woman who is nine years my senior but who somehow thinks—I know how, I lied to her—that I’m actually four years older than her—and yet I’m nineteen, I’m still raring to go and go and go and her tits are nice though I’m not even really sure I like her but she likes me and that’s more than enough and she tells me soft-like, sexy, in a purring tone I’ve never heard before outside of pornos and once through a motel room’s thin walls, to put my dark little dick between her white, white tits and she has these big green eyes, her second nicest feature, the first being that she wants to fuck me, and I shake my head like Jerry refusing to eat the food Poppie made, you know the episode, because Poppie is sloppy, because Poppie didn’t wash his hands after he took a shit, but I don’t know what this refusal means or suggests or reveals, because I’m hard and she’s wet and I’m nineteen. I want to write a poem about that but I don’t know where to start.