Jonathan May grew up in Zimbabwe as the child of missionaries. He lives and teaches in Memphis, TN. His work has appeared in [PANK], Superstition Review, Plots With Guns, Shark Reef, Duende, One, and Rock & Sling. He’s recently finished translating the play Dreams by Günter Eich into English. Read more at https://memphisjon.wordpress.com/
Artist Contact Information: firstname.lastname@example.org – @jonmaybach
We were having this conversation
with the Dolce & Gabbana fellow
who knew so much about the weather
in Memphis, lightly grabbing his crotch
as he guided us to the ties and pants,
gushing invites for drinks by the pool, nude.
Red shirt in hand, he slid his fingers over the nude
mannequin, gazing into the gauzy sockets, conversation
plays over in his head. The lights off, he pants
as he talks to dummy Harold, his silent fellow.
When, Harold, when will I find him? Crotch
bulging, tan, Harold looks outside at the weather.
Cody and I are backed into the corner, talk of weather
ringing hot in ours ears as we’re brushed against nude
female mannequins, tiny breasts, no waist, crotches
that slope into nothing. At this point, conversation
falls second to the fingers of this D&G fellow
as he shucks with pleasantries, a thud as my pants
hit the tiles in the deluxe dressing room. He pants
as Cody and I look at each other, talk of weather
erased as I feel him choking himself, poor crying fellow,
on each of us in turn. Through a curtain crack, I see nude
Harold, his burning blank gaze. Two women in conversation
over the pros and cons of an avocado diet, their crotches
lined with organza. A smell wet-hot rises from crotch
level as I gather my pants back on, D&G’s nude
still, pumping his frantic dick. The conversation,
at this point, is so far from the sun-drenched weather
that I begin to laugh, Cody and D&G still at it and nude
in the tasteful red dressing-room lights. Are all my fellow
queers so quick to slide tongues and all manner of fellow
objects into strangers? I thought of the two crotches
of the avocado-organzas—would they let some nude
hunk slip into them as long as he has nice teeth and pants,
as long as he was able to think of ways to make conversation
about diets and fucking, anything but the weather?
Some nights, faceless fellows plow into my dreams, panting
as they unload their hot crotches. They don’t care about whether
my nude body cries; they didn’t come for conversation.