That dumb beer commercial
says men have a thing
for blond twins, like it’s a fact
of America, no different
than blocky quarterbacks. I wonder
if they know girls
like us exist.

Betcha our market
is bigger than anyone
cares to admit, though
you’re the only girl I know
who’d watch this:
two boys constricting
on burgundy blankets,
a twisted heap,
a wreck of flesh
writhing in rhythm,
gentle but forceful
fingers sunk into sleek
strands, clutching for dear
life or death. Two sets of taut
thighs, two sets of tousled
locks arcing into fogged eyes,
blond Alexander crouched
over brunet Hephaestion,
mouth plunging
as if rubbing
blood back into frigid fingers,
fair head nudging
beneath dark-haired bravado
to siphon off pride.

The soundtrack sears
like heated wire, aches
like a sleeping limb revived.
I lean in closer, rest
my chin on your shoulder
as the brunette throws back
his head and moans so faintly
it’s exquisite.
I watch the swallowing
mechanism of his throat,
watch his Adam’s apple rise
and fall as sighs escape,
his diligent lover
still laboring below,
and I can’t figure out
who in this pretty picture I want
to be, or if I’m happy
outside the screen
with my chin on your shoulder.

We don’t have sex, but
I can make words
throb in your abdomen
like bass beats.
I daydream of arching
your back, yet seldom
consider logistics.
We are
daughters our fathers
have wrassled into
sons whose voices
our mothers have stolen.
Two boys together
strike closer
to the Truth of Us
than two girls ever could.

The brunette comes discreetly.
The blonde glides up to meet him,
and you and I lace fingers,
feeling accomplished.