THE NIGHT I FOUND OUT X WENT TO A SEX SHOP

for me,

we were out to dinner. Our margaritas had already undressed

wet rings onto napkins when X passed the unassuming

brown bag the size of a Kleenex box between the glasses.

I hardly knew X enough to receive a birthday gift.

He grinned across the table as I pinched the sides

of the envelope to open the mouth, laughed as I pulled

an erotic sucker from the pocket. Long, neon, I tucked

the candy back in the wrapper, but not from embarrassment

or fear the waitress would notice. I imagined X confronted

by waves of dildos and vibrators in the store,

clearing his throat and swiping his debit card, avoiding

eye contact with erect silicone. There was no denying hunger

that night; I wanted to devour X’s silly trophy

when I got home, too scared to savor the moment,

but something stopped me. I kept the cerulean penis

in the paper bag and placed it in my lowest desk drawer.

As eager as I was for a taste, what would I do after

I got my mouth around pleasure, and it dissolved?