by Shermaine Waugh ’13
15 and hands shaking,
pale cheeks flushed with
color – he looked to me for
reassurance before ever touching
Fingertips kissed my tummy – roamed over
deep, feminine curves neither one of us were
I remember his whimpers… like a newborn, loud and
piercing, but so full of life that I smiled through the pain of
clumsy little pricks – shallow at first but then deeper –
hesitant until finding the right spot.
I stared in wonder at the blood on his needle.
Damien was the second.
He saw my back like a dusky canvas, a rich expanse of something
new to conquer.
He did me on my stomach – my cheek pressed against the
pillow, body so close I could smell the heat of his
“Easy,” he liked to tell me as his long, dark
fingers probed my spine, finding the soft
junctions to tease…
With him I squirmed —
touch of an
with sweat and
a row of sparkling
studs in its wake.
He worked serving kimchi at a
family restaurant that kind of looked at
you funny if you weren’t from the neighborhood.
He had a smile like diamonds and on our first date,
studded my ears with a pair from Tiffany’s.
Boring. I remember thinking they were so boring. I already
had six on my right ear and three on my left.
But he knew. The shining little diamonds did nothing, so he did everything.
Eager where others had hesitated, powerful when most men were soft.
I bled onto his fingertips and let him conquer my hips with pressure
and steel. On my stomach, on my back, staring down at him without
shame – we worked everywhere and any way we could.
I would always leave his room with new holes and
the scent of raw spice burned into my skin.
We were strange, but we worked.
Stewed ox tail at my place and bulgogi
at his. A steady needle always
piercing -my body
open and willing.