Rimming

I love the taste of a clean hole. My first time,
He warned me: it’s a different feeling, all right;

I sat on his face and thought: indeed, it is!
I could see my reflection in the mirrored cupboard,

my reflection against the bright, distant Arabian Sea.
The day was humid but not oppressive.

I ate him out and escaped my oppression in his void.
The door was locked, and there were no cops,

No cops like those that terrorized that cruisy toilet.
Our desire broke rules and protested.

We broke those rules—out of desire, not protest.
It took maybe a second for me to acquire this taste,

This taste of a different freedom,
The puckered void that is a gravity of energy,

Not unlike a dead star, but breathing, expanding,
A pistil stretching out over my visible universe.

It is not a stretch when I say that I find delight
In a hungry hole, a faithful mouth waiting to be fed.

Eating ass is an act of faith. A tongue meeting
Nerve endings that house pleasure and pain—

I can make a home between those cheeks
and park my face there all day.