Holding Hands at the Coffee Shop with My Gay Boyfriend

Sitting on a rainy Sunday afternoon,
Facing each other,
The tabletop collaged and glass covered,
Our mismatched coffee cups resting on “Pride float – 1983” and “Queen Victoria – 1987” respectively,
We cruised guys walking in and out of the men’s room,
They sidled towards the door, casting eyes until they found each other,
Or hung out in the foyer reading the bulletin board incessantly,
Loitering for one another,
The smell of sex and coffee mixing in the air.

I felt your foot rub mine,
A tapping and slouch as you touched my leg – a long firm stroke,
You slyly smirked, reaching under the table for my hand,
Under the table, hidden from the gay boy’s eyes,
The neon sign flashed rainbow lights on us,
Violet, blue, red, yellow lights mottled by the water,
Our hands held tight with love,
Far from all your ex-tricks and tricks-to-be’s eyes.

“I love your face when you come” he whispered,
I turned pink from my cheeks outwards,
My blush of rushing blood starting in my face and running down,
My neck, shoulders, breasts, belly, cunt, thighs and to my toes,
The rainbow light glowing over us two,
Our hands secretly entwined as we looked at the boys,
Wondered who liked it rough, and who liked it soft as rain,
Who murmured like rustling trees, and who liked to be on their knees,
Who you had done, and who you wanted to do and how,
Drinking our coffee, disentangling each hand and foot, and going home.

About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a queer butch San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran.
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