I used to fall in love with boys by the way
they drank a glass of milk.
and there was something unknowingly sexual in that,
how their hips slumped against the kitchen counter
while their fingers traced the curve of glass, like they
were finding their way between someone’s legs.
this went on for a long time, years, even.
it became a ritual: a man I’d met at a bar would invite me
over to his house and instead of sleeping with him,
I’d ask him to drink milk.
in front of me, so I could watch his eyes as he did it.
and I think that often turned them off,
made them want to leave me alone,
but for me that act was better than sex.
it’s like they were undressing
right there in the kitchen, all the skin peeling away.
I wanted them to keep going, to strip themselves bare
of everything like an onion. stay like that, I’d think.
nothing more, nothing less.
and though that urge has considerably dwindled over the following years,
I still linger a little longer in the dairy aisle of a grocery store
than I have to.