Raimundo Gabriel Alencar
He hands him a tissue
to wipe the cum off his belly.
They walk around naked and sweaty.
Let them talk about trivial things.
Football, gas prices, video-games.
They’d just had the kind of sex
you always want to remember,
the one you want to brag to your friends
But can’t because—
Hey, you faggot!
For a moment there’s no shame.
For a moment the world’s eyes are blind,
focused on the dark side of the moon,
and its many mouths remain closed.
They borrowed their bodies and had fun with it.
He checks the beaming skin of his partner.
What is his name?
It starts with a b or d.
He always forget things,
but don’t worry.
This one he would always remember.
He watches his blurred silhouette behind the shower curtain.
He feels his lover’s body drawing him in.
He resists.
“Hey, I ain’t no fag, okay? No romance shit.”
That hurts.
It always did.
He should always remember that.
They could be themselves here,
away from the world,
the bed as their promised land.
You only need to desire.
The magic is gone now.
The world calls for them.
And they must run straight to their dark shell.
So he stays quiet and waits for the man to leave the shower.
He looks in the mirror, cleans his face,
throws away the tissue clammy with his
soon-to-be-dead children.
They say their “bye dude, that was hot.”
The next day they must pretend to not know each other.
They must always pretend.
That’s how they continue on staying alive.
Raimundo Gabriel Alencar lives in Brazil and spends most of his time working, writing, reading everything under the sun, and studying languages.