A Nervous Top and Two Bottoms in a Small Kosher Kitchen

I knew something was afoot,
Even before I flew in to visit you,
Our last IM contained all the sordid hints.

And then while making dinner in your kitchen,
I looked into the trash to throw away some bit of whatever,
There was a discarded cloud of black lace,
On top of the rest of the garbage,
I think they were panties cut off with a knife,
I’m guessing your college knife,
The one that you regretfully never used on me.

And the other bottom was chattering,
(She of the black lace panties),
Rolling pastry, cleaning artichokes,
All I can do is break broiler doors,
Turn down the pressure cooker,
Cook badly, all bumbling and stupid,
Get spoken sharply to,
Be ordered to sit,
Then sent outside to grill,
You both inside and scheming I’m sure

And we eat and eat and eat and eat,
Nervous because there are plans for after dinner,
Shady plans that were made long before my plane touched down,
And we haven’t fucked much during this visit yet,
What with you taking new meds and sleeping all the time,
Or us going to shule,
Which I like, but swallows almost all of Saturday,
And my ear infection which makes me feel dizzy, deaf, and dumb.

So she brings in her toy bag,
And offers to cut my hair,
This kitchen is too small for the three of us,
And I don’t like girls like that,
With her long curly hair, and giggles, and fluttery flirtation.

To make the longest story short,
I act as a bondage model for the new girlfriend,
Who you insist is a nothing, just a morsel for the two of us,
But cutoff black panties never lie,
And your familiarity with how to make her come,
And the words “sweetie”,
And you holding her in your sleep.

Eh, I don’t care who you fuck,
As long as you are fucking me,
As long as fucking me is new and bright,
But your fucking has become rote;
You know that if you move your hand like this,
After you cane me like that,
And I’m on my stomach like this,
That I’ll come over and over and over and over.
Silly top…..
Anyone can do that, and several have.

I don’t know what you want anymore,
I don’t know what I want anymore,
I have 685 emails from you,
And I would have more, but I deleted the ones that took up too much space.
We have a lack of communication,
And that is so businesslike for this chaos,
That overtakes me when I try to untangle your messages,
Your words and signals float 685 miles to slam into my heart.

But I love you,
And that love and fucking thing is OK,
I mean, you asked,
Its one-sided, so shouldn’t concern you anyway,
Love is none of your fucking business,
And maybe I don’t love you at all,
But I’m practicing for someone else.
I do know that I never want to cook in your kitchen again,
Particularly with the third participant of a threesome,
Who I’m even all that attracted to;
A nervous, horny top in a small kosher kitchen,
Is a recipe for emotional disaster,
Not to mention broken cookware and culinary mishaps.

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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