The Poet of Lesbos
It was the summer of ’71–two months before I said Zeitgeist.
Graveyard shift at the freight dock.
Me and Goob. Swapping fantasies on a stack of pallets, waiting for a Salt Lake truck full of car parts and paint.
“Mostly,” says Goob, “I just want to have sex with a girl, but as a girl.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I said.
“Don’t tell nobody.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
There was nowhere to work it in. Not as an adjective. Not with Goob.
Then the truck arrived, and when I got down from the pallet, Goob snapped a towel at my crotch. I’m not sure that meant anything.
