I suppose Jude’s right when he slyly says,
“John says I shouldn’t worry
About shocking you, there’s nothing
I could say that would.”
And so he weighs on in;
Abhorring small talk for the
Spin-the-bottle childish of:
“So what’s a lesbian’s favourite
Sexual position?”
All chambray blue shirt and brown trousers,
He BBCs, I feint and parry,
Such silly soldiers of the chitchat wars,
Wielding crack and anal sex
Like cardboard swords and shields.
Catching a glimpse of the photograph
Of me kissing you in my wallet,
He asks, nudge-winking, “So, is she? Was she?”
I say no. Because she isn’t, wasn’t, hasn’t ever.
Not as far as I want Jude to know, anyway. Though you are, you were, you will be.
For I can’t think of anything worse than
Jude masturbating over me and the lovely you
In some overpriced north Brisbane flat.
And I don’t really mind indulging him
The salacious silliness of strangers talking sex
Over the latest-thing tacos and coronas.
For in the end, my favourite position
Is neither on top or on bottom or from behind,
Some practiced arrangement of limb on limb,
I have learnt over time
In lessons sometimes fun and sometimes painful,
Whose testimonies gather bruise-like on my body,
My favourite position is humdrum and mundane:
I like to fuck you in love.
(God – good better worse?)
eleanor j jackson 