He brought me to a field thinking that would be the ideal place to
take my virginity.
Seventeenth century style, he was nothing if not a History buff.
I was offended by the sight of my first real life penis, poking through
pilling underwear.
A penis in a field—I guess there could be a metaphor there but I’m
not that good a poet to figure it out.
Or maybe I’m just too much of a prude—
let’s just say he did not fulfill my bodice ripper fantasies.
It’s weird how parents are so weird about sex.
In a trial we would be proof beyond reasonable doubt of their
transgressions.
My parents have always been weird, but never about sex—
which I guess makes them weird about that too.
They talked condoms and abortions at the dinner table,
asked me about boyfriends with smiles, not frowns.
That’s why I knew where he was going when he took me to see the
wildflowers,
otherwise referred to as weeds.
He miscalculated my response to embarrassment—
I didn’t get confused and in confusion acquiesce;
I was disappointed but not surprised at the lack of effort. I told him
to put it away
and if you could see the look on his face you would cry so much,
you’d die of dehydration.
Poor misunderstood teenage boy.
What a hostile place the world is.
