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Steve said, “There is Pam fucking Jones. She’s hot. Do you know her? She’s on the cheerleading squad.”“No, let’s see if they want to go out on the boat.”“Yes, that would fulfill a few fantasies.”Pulling into the spot next to them, I got out and asked, “Would you ladies like to go out in the boat and maybe do some skiing?”Judy responded before Pam, “We’d love to.”Steve was in a trance as he followed the girls and carried the cooler down the dock to where the boat was kept.When we were all aboard, I tossed a gym bag into the cabin below deck and said, “Why don’t you girls go below and change into your bathing suits?” I idled out of the marina and then slowly brought the boat to plane on top of the water. We were up to speed when the hatch opened and out walked the Jones sisters in thongs and tops that both left nothing to the imagination. They must have used a crow bar on each other to wedge them into those suits and no hair stuck out on the sides. I was pleased.Steve on the other hand. For me, that particular dream died with a lot of others. I got to read the poems as they came in, sitting in the airless, windowless room allotted to us in a 1930s, wannabe Gothic, PWA building in our public (but cheap) college. They were all written on paper, would you believe the whole entire college had only one computer, an IBM 7 series the size of a walk-in refrigerator. Most of the poems showed promise, most as firestarters for barbecue charcoal, but we had to print a few. Yes, I was an arrogant puppy in those days. Then there was one, it stopped me. I remember the beginning so well: As I lie with you I go to glory I go to glory When I lie with you And the white owl One ear cocked to the ceiling One liquid eye floating in the goblet Upward. I remember I shivered. I could feel the poet’s arousal, imagine her (I knew it had to be ‘her’ even before I looked at the signature) opening her legs, waiting for the thrust (or better still, the gentle insertion and pressure), tensing,.
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