Poetry from Jeanie Purslow
Having sex with a guy
He said he’d meet me in a bar on the main strip in the CBD
he had just come from work
I had just come to some lesbian porn before leaving
he ordered a tall pint of beer
I ordered pineapple juice.
He said, “did you wear that for me?”
I flashed my eyes at him.
He talked about the death of his teacher
I stroked his shoulder lovingly.
When he thanked me his face grew hungry
his eyes changed and he paid the bill
he stuck his fingers in my cunt, the other hand hailing a cab
he ejaculated in my hand in the back seat
he fell asleep afterwards, smiling milkily.
The driver followed me on Instagram and liked my nine most recent photographs.
Having sex with a girl
The lesbianism tickles the corners of my arms
it feels like a tiny blue flame
I’m waiting for the bus and I feel alive.
When she walks in, my stomach gurgles.
I tell myself not to do that.
Her eyes are up there - her eyes are up there -
my hands are over here…my hands are…
my legs are under the table. Her foot is
what did she just say? Fuck, I’ll listen now.
I stare at her to beg her to tell me what to do next
(Surely lesbians can communicate telepathically?)
She speaks so quietly, her body is shouting at me,
it tells me I am gay, I am gay, I am boundlessly gay.
Later, when she goes down on me,
I cover my ears with my hands so I can’t hear myself moan.
Having sex with a non-binary person
During a long conversation about our Distinct struggle,
we edge ever-closer on the velveteen sofa.
They have won once in Shithead, I have won once
we called a truce because we couldn’t stop talking.
They hold the back of my neck when they kiss me
I am reminded of where I am
we kiss until the straight couple next to us leaves
we kiss until we want to do more than kissing
their room is big - there’s too much floor space
we give each others’ bodies time to feel
I leave in the morning and we hug at the door
I leave a piece of my identity on their yellow pillow.
Queer as in Fuck Your Borders
I live behind the lines
You will feel my wrath
In self-deprecating poetry.
My best friends groped me on my birthday
after I told them I am not what they want
neither remembered
the way their robot hands fumbled in the dark
went for my bum, searching for flesh, reaching for arse
I told them what they had done the next morning.
I watched their faces fall
and we all moved on.
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