Arson’s Lips

36 inches of space

between our faces

intimidated me.

Arson is even cooler than her name.

Her expressions pump out more confidence

than her vegan leather jacket and boots.

I didn’t tell her

that was my first date as a woman,

or that I dripped pre cum

in my boy shorts

when she told me she played in a punk band.

I didn’t tell her I called in a shady favor from Bree Mills

to book me in a movie in LA

just so I’d be within driving distance of her.

We’d flirted cross country on Instagram for a while.

Her black heart emojis

hit like a consensual throat punch.

I tried to play it cool

and not like all her posts,

but I ain’t cool.  I’m authentic.

I rely on queer autism and honesty to get laid.

Fuck, she’s out of my league.

I should’ve rented a smaller car

so our heads would be closer

at the end of the date.

We’d spent the afternoon

eating burgers

drinking coffee

and picking through a vintage book store.

She showed me around Long Beach a little

and we told each other the kinds of stories

that described us.  Not just the one’s that made us sound cool.

I’d kissed some girls before,

as a woman

and I’d kissed a trans guy,

and I was in poly love with a she/they clown dominatrix

who asked me to be their girlfriend

after I made them a tuna sandwich,

but this was my first real gay date.

What if we kissed in my Honda CRV?

Arson unclicked her seat belt.

I had to make my move.

I was scared but femme hormone bravery

towed me across three feet of stillness over the center console.

Halfway across I found out how good she smells.

She smelled like gender euphoria.

She smelled like danger

and fun,

like running from cops.

She smelled like a “Good night baby, I love you” text.

Oh God what did I smell like?

She leaned in and met me in the middle.

She kissed me back and exploded my soul.

She opened her mouth and I dripped again.

Our tongues slid touching

pushing and pulling

melting a part of my sternum I didn’t know was there

while our injected lips unlocked and locked back together.

If I put her hand on my throat would she choke me?

If I put her hand in my bra would she squeeze?

I don’t know how long our lips touched

because time stopped,

but I saw flashes of uhauls

and my cats licking her dog’s head.

I wanted my Gay Pagan Gods to protect her too.

Arson Leigh stamped me a lesbian,

which was all I wanted for 43 years.

Could I start a new life in Long Beach?

No Lucy, simmer down.  Take the win.

Fly back to Brooklyn.  Consider an undercut?

Step up your dyke game at New York play parties

and suck on the memory of Arson’s lips.

Someone will book me in California again.