Notes on Sexual Experiment
Solid floor, vacant den, pinned up
frizzy locs sitting to the side of an oval
face. Smoke pillowing the musky air
complimented by a muscled amber
man pointing a grin at me.
A mustache feels different on my lips. Hands usually
used for destruction feel different constructed
on my waist. When he hits his purple-green weed
then kisses me, the difference exchanges
through our hips. Take off your clothes first.
I obey, with caution.
I’ve only slept with women, so why
is my tinder on “men & women”? The search
engine compliments my scrolling wonder
I stumble upon a seemingly cute profile
that lives 5 miles away. Shawn it says.
How will I sound screaming the name Shawn.
His room has no furniture besides a futon.
An assortment of knitted and store-bought
blankets with candles and coconut oil color
the cushioned side. As I ride, I look out
of his curtainless window, wide-eyed.
The pain I feel when he first lands
comes from an unrealized pleasure; I mean,
what is sex with a man if not a missile
entering a warm bed of darkness? When he rubs my
chest with coconut oil heated on his kitchen stove,
I can’t help but wonder when love
will kick in. I hold his hand to maintain balance.
I feign eye contact so he can go faster.
When I fucked Faith with a strap-on
sexuality felt like a college friend that moved away.
When you see them, it’s all love, but
they’re often not here. Like a car, her lungs filled
with smoke until the heat becomes unbearable — Please me,
daddy. And I certainly did. There was no doubt I was lesbian
then. I wasn’t around to confuse me.
Thin sideburns, semi-snagged back tooth, patchy
left cheek bone birdlike-yet-husky chest pumping —
Funny how air becomes a rarity when we fuck. I look
away from your face as if to deny the power I lend to you;
the unmarked grave of my virginity or
the science experiment I’ve made of you, & this, & it
Sit on on the futon & break your gar, boy
I’ll just sit, wishing this wasn’t happening
Wishing I didn’t (kind of) like it
I tell my best friend after I ghost you,
“That nigga was crazy, so he’s cancelled,”
I lie. Neglecting the time
you bent me over a suitcase (& I let you) or
the time(s) we didn’t strap up (& I almost
said I love you) or
the time you mentioned your mother and I
just climbed on top–
This is just sex, I get it, but at least
just try to care a little.
Face-holding, coarse lips slipping wet salt
slapping when I ask (only when I ask)
Harder. Rub my insides with your
shallow lack of shame Touch me
only when you lose grip & we need to hold hands
only when I’m so confused that I need it
I want love to make a mockery of my golden star
disintegrating from this sky I’ve built
in the shape of your back
I go to the restroom at work and blood escapes
when I pee. (Is this what deflowering looks like?)
I nurse my newly tender area, wash my hands
with lavender soap, look in the mirror and smirk,
(Will this make me more of a woman?) The thought
disappears, I go back to work.
By Nia KB
Nia KB (they/them) is a Black queer nonbinary poet, editor, and educator. They are the recipient of fellowships and residencies from Lambda Literary, The Speakeasy Project, and UTSA’s African American Literatures and Cultures Institute. Their poetry appears or is forthcoming in Eleven40Seven, Z Publishing, Pamplemousse, Brown State of Mind, Lighthouse Literary, and elsewhere. When they’re not blessing stages or writing pages, they serve as Associate Poetry Editor for Fields Magazine, Production Assistant for the web series Gentrified, Curator/Host of the reading series Austin Interfaces, and Teaching Artist for Austin Library Foundation’s Badgerdog Creative Writing Program. If you got this far, they think you should follow them on twitter and instagram at nia_kb.