Play

So it is play, this laughing of skin on skin. It is not the adult kind of love that you see at the movies. It is all chase and grab and for a time we are too busy catching our breath to put the condoms on at all.

"You don't take this seriously," he tells us and we don't, at least I don't. Later, when we are done with him, I wake from a kind of leap-frogging dream that is all clapping games and sex and nuzzling and they are coupling, the boys, my boys. I watch through barely open eyes as they move on and in each other silently. They are trying not to wake me and I humour them. I am careful not to change the rhythm of my breath, but I watch their seriousness. This is like a love scene in the movies. This is like pornography, the steady, quiet intensity of their actions, the meaningul glances, the serious set of their mouths. It seems like no fun at all, and yet I am aroused by it, this sex that happens when I am not around. If I were to wake we would all be giggling like girls, my boys and I. My sex play. My play. I am here for comic relief. My riotous sexuality.

Some nights I dream that I am someone different. Some solemn beautiful creature with waterfall hair and a body that can not be joked about. Some nights I long for that imaginary self and the awe that I would inspire, but in the morning I will return to myself and I will make them laugh and wrestle and come and that is almost enough for me and almost enough for them too.