Seven — If You Count the Dwarf


This hasn’t been a good three years for fucking,

And by seven, I mean seven times not seven people,

And my definition of “fucking” is somewhat broad;

Would I do it at a cocktail party?

Would I do it with my brother?

Maybe these tests of whether it is fucking are not totally reliable,

But they give me a starting point.


3 —

Three times was Max,

Who spent eight months trying to convince me she was a bottom and I was a top,

Which I would have gone for,


Well, certainly I would have gone for it if it had started that way,

But it didn’t.

It was cute at first,

Riding on the back of her motorcycle,

Her laughing at my bossiness saying, “You’re such a top”,

Me, demurring.

Me saying to her in her leather vest, “I want to clarify this; you’re a top, right?”

Her answer that it was in her blood….grrrr.

Who once ripped my panties off with her teeth,

I became alert…eager,

My insides chortling with promises of what was to come,

But she backed off, slowed down…contrite.


1 –

You were waiting for the dwarf weren’t you?

I wasn’t.

It was a New Years Eve party,

I went with two friends – neither dwarfs.

The theme was fairies and I wore orange monarch wings,

Dina wore something faintly pale shimmery ballerina,

Casey wore a grass skirt and coppery skin.

A dwarf serenaded us with a song about fat girls,

We giggled and followed her,

All three of us bending over to be paddled,

Then later kissing each other and squealing,

Wings and grass flying about,

The dwarf paddling our asses,

It was midnight and a new year,

And my rule was that the coming year would duplicate the activities of whatever I was doing at midnight,

Which, as it turned out,

Was not accurate.


1 –

I didn’t see this one coming either,

At some event a woman was getting pierced;

A pink cord woven through the needles on her back,

I prefer cutting and said so to Dina, but she was turned on,

Every one is different just like some song about diversity and being nice, free to be me and you,

You can get poked and I’ll get sliced, thank you.

We talk about needles with Josh,

He has a glitter-covered box of needles at home,

He would love to pierce Dina.

Weeks later, shopping for lunch he tells me he thinks I’m hot,

I’m stunned,

My brain works like the test glasses at the optometrist,

I change my vision of Josh from close friend to possible fuckee.

We never pierce Dina, but we fuck,

We fuck the kind of fuck where you come away covered in bruises,

Dazed and happy and making plans to do it again,

Walk home; the air is sweet and sparkles.

Then he gets into a funk about his breakup from months ago,

Loses his libido, and we cancel all fucking.



2 –

Gina lived with her birds in Washington, DC,

We met online,

Emailed long letters – I liked her, she liked me,

This reads like a personal ad, but that’s how it started,

She emailed me 79 times and I emailed her 72 times,

We ate together 5 times and we fucked twice.

The problems were, in no particular order;

Stone butch, class issues, badly dressed.

Not wanting me to touch her cunt,

And her reluctance to meet my friends were deal-breakers,

The part about her sloppiness was really not so bad,

Since I wanted her clothing off anyway.

I’m not this crass, really.


Hey, Que Sera Sera,

I’m trying to laugh at this,

And believe that some day my fuck will come,

I will easily and magically fuck,

Fuck like birds and bees and trees and whatever else is fucking,

Fuck with my limbs, with my open heart, with my cunt,

Laugh at this because it is funny in a sad kind of way,

Laughing at the foibles of the fuck.

I will fuck.


About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a queer butch San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Seven — If You Count the Dwarf

  1. Paul Squires says:

    I was waiting for the drawfs, sorry. That is brilliant narrative poetry, the people are so real and individual. It is like a series of vignette snapshot variations. And the control over the narrative tone (a kind of self-deprecating intelligence?) breathes life into the whole thing. I am still a fan.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s