Mei Lin

She was the mother
Of a girl at college.
a plump, vaguely pretty
Chinese housewife
Married to a banker.

She liked it from behind
One leg hanging over
The edge of the bed, the
Other cocked up against
The little bulge of her belly.

Hard and slow and deep.
A good pistoning. No master
Needed here, just good
Journeyman fucking and I,
Nineteen and mindlessly

Compulsively horny was
Her weekly indulgence. No
Texting back then, just a
Discreet phone call, a
Cryptic, innocent message.

She had a little ritual. She
Liked being stripped down
A little roughly in the foyer,
Made to walk upstairs naked
And laid down on the bed,

A careful bourgeois rape fantasy
That involved no actual tearing of
Clothes or loss of buttons and
Always from behind, to
Heighten the feeling of danger

And, perhaps, to anonymize
The young man spreading her
Legs apart, enjoying the
Cautious wickedness she
Craved along with her climax.

Squeeze hard on her generous
Breasts. Run my hands over her
Small, ample, well-kept body.
Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.
Slowly and wordlessly

Until she’d grip the sheets with
Both hands and give that little
Cry of pain that signaled
Her orgasm and permission
To come and come and come

And then lie beside her, panting,
Spooning her, but never lying
Face-to-face. I suspect that
Privilege was reserved for her
Husband who she said made love

To her once a week in the
Missionary position and then
Left the marriage-bed to do
Some more work in his
Home office down the hall.

She’d always bake cookies
Or some sweet before, and
Give me a paper plate full of them
Covered in tin foil when I left.
An integral part of the rite.