ode to mark lander, bully of my boyhood dreams

at age 12 i was a total bottom.

sure, when i grappled with the blonds on their bedroom floor, on afternoons, while jonny quest flickered on a japanese tv screen overhead,

i climbed on top,

pinned their tan skinny wrists against their ears,
brushed against their downy cheek,
smelled their mustard breath.
sweaty t-shirts roused up to our ribs, my stomach pressing down theirs,
hardness shaped itself in boyish hijinks.

but what i ached for was a brutal big brother--

he would pull in my reins,
teach me a lesson i would not forget,
own my sorry white ass but good.

at 12 i was a total masochist.

i needed payback for my petty crimes.
i needed cutting down to size.

every nerve in my gangly prepubescence cried my need for a whupping.

now the moment is long gone--
late middle age, old age, weight beginning to spot + sag,

too late for the darkhaired boy in his black speedos,
his hardware thighs, his python back.

he would make me writhe + moan,
tie me into a knot + turn deadeyed to space + flex his knotty bicep,
hard as a wham-o superball.

he would teach me a thing or two.

he would push me down for good.

he would pounce me black + blue.