My Confession, I loved sensual fruit
And the warmth of a strong black man’s body.
Also sweet sounds of slow jams, lingering the air,
Scents, of rosehips, of warm honey.
So what kind of virgin am I? Many others
Are innocently called, timid.
Who would believe me. For they witness
How I slow grind, caress myself on the dance floor.
And the way my hands viciously attack my victims chest.
Teasing and aware of it. Desiring intimacy,
I knew what was left for unsure Mary’s like me:
A banquet of thoughts, a ton of star-filled dreams,
A constant arousal, masturbation.
—After Czeslaw Milosz
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