No one ever really says
that it hurts.

All of my girlfriends
just laughed and gave a vague
answer, something like:

“Oh, you know, it was okay.”

Never said what I wanted to know,
just giggled nervously into the receiver—
I could hear them twirl their hair around
a finger, could feel the tremor in their hands
like a 6.0 on the Richter.

I know that sometimes you get lucky
and he might even hold you afterwards.

Or he might fumble to get his jeans on,
kiss you sloppily on the cheek,
pat your arm, promise a phone call that
will never come,

and you will lay on the damp sheets
that smell like you, that smell like him
for hours.

You will feel proud of yourself
for telling him to use a condom,
but then worry incessantly about
the small chance that it broke between
“Are you sure?” and “Yes.”

Maybe during a laugh you’ll
feel a twinge between your thighs
and you will feel empty and full all at once
and there will be longing and revulsion
so thick it chokes you on the way down.

You’ll wonder what took you so long.

You’ll wonder why you
couldn’t wait for someone else.