if i wanted to have sex with a man, i’d want to have sex with a chicago man. not the brooding white boys of wrigleyville who ask you about what you’re reading on the train (“dyke stuff,” eyes not lifting off the pages) or side up to you with self-conscious optimism, cub hats askew. i’m taking chicago men, such mass you’re pushed off the sidewalk by the sight of them. their skin can be so beautifully deep you couldn’t see the stars out, or pock-scarred and bristled. they’re forward, they tell you things like how they want to fuck you or where they want to put their cock with conviction and esteem. a man today told me i was sexy in a voice that seemed to come from a second mouth deep in his throat. it was a voice i knew could work its way around my pussy and i couldn’t help it, i looked to his hands. chicago men have big hands, thick fingers and careful nails. they don’t keep their nails long any more than a lesbian would; these are people who want to please a woman. they know how cold you are, and how comfortable they all are in the same black, indiscriminate coats that always smell like cigarettes, always cut you at the zipper. chicago men sweat and lick their lips and let their eyes tear with the same current water that made this port city; it’s so clear how strongly it runs through them, imagine tension arcs pooling against your stomach, in your lips and hair, or twitching itself slowly down your throat.
i’m really glad i don’t want a man, because i would not be able to walk around this city. i’d reside entirely in alleyways and public bathrooms, my knees would be bruised always and i would have so many babies.
