This is sad. You love dorks. Geeks that smell like pimple cream and have large glasses that make their eyes bob and bulge like silky Betas. You count the pleats on their tan pants and their tight white briefs consume your nightlife. You think about how they must also be afraid of their own bodies, they’re embarrassing erections, their sweet-smelling body hair. You daydream about reading the dictionary naked with them, about becoming an expert on obscure sex limericks, or the quality of condom brands. Alex Trebek started it. You blame your mother for turning you into a quiz. I’ll take dorks with secretly hard bodies for $500, you think to yourself as Jeremy goes to the board to draw a diagram of a cell in biology. One of his shoes is untied, and he has wax on his braces. His hair is like a sunrise, unburdened and bright. He smells like fabric softener. His mother still keeps him safe, soft and whole. Maybe it is his mother you love.
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POETRY: Issue 35