And swagger he did. At least six foot two, dark denim hugging in all the right places, and black leather boots with jacket to match. His three-day beard swung right and left in a wolfish prowl as his eyebrows stitched together and cased the joint. A regular James Dean, playing the cool card.

Jonny took the last swig of his rye and pushed back his stool as he surveyed the man. He recognized the act for exactly what it was and decided to help the guy out.

An introduction.

“You’re not from around here.”

“Nope.”

“This isn’t your kind of place, but I could give you a few recommendations.”

“How would you know what I like?” the stranger asked.

An opening.

“Trust me. Smoke?”

A nod.

“Follow me.”

And with that, Jonny turned and didn’t look back. He led his new friend outside the club under the eaves. The rain beat the tin in a gentle staccato.

A Lucky Strike and two Marlboros began to burn slowly.

A few words but mostly stolen glances from under more stitched brows.

Talk is cheap and so, in essence.…

The stranger isn’t from around here.

A confirmation.

This is his first time,

At a place like this.

A specification layered thick with judgment.

AND HE’S nervous, but that’s outweighed by excitement and a healthy dose of randiness. So Jonny takes the lead and exhales a cloud that hangs lazily in the dense, wet air. He leans in and smells the stranger. Like one dog on the scent of another.

The stranger turns his T-square jaw and meets Jonny’s mouth. Past reason and rationale, he’s determined to try it.

It’s rough, like his beard, tough like the heel of his boot.

And tastes like a rebel without a cause.

In short, Jonny is intoxicated.

An alley is more suitable for this type of exchange, and so they make a move.

RAIN FALLS. Neither cares. The taste of cigarettes burning short on the tongue and denim 501s threatening to unbutton themselves hurries them along.

A sole streetlight, and they swap postures of prayer.

Jonny doesn’t mind an adventure, and his blood boils in a mixture of exhilarated shame as the stranger hurls epithets at him while swinging his bat cockily.

“Suck it, homo.”

The irony is not lost on Jonny, but he can dish it as well as he can take it.

Why is this self-hatred so erotically satisfying to our little Jonny? A witch’s brew, and both Jonny and the stranger are under its spell.

Lucretia Undone

Butterflies with dark wings

On a merry-go-round

With Rum ’n’ Raisin ice cream

Riding a bike. Scraped knee

Pulling gravel out of the flesh

Wash it clean with the garden hose

Fresh peas out of the pod

Sweet but smell of dirt

Picking raspberries, attacked by a thorn

Anywhere but here