Desperate to be part of the night,
we jerked like a bunch of spazzes
to that screaming eunuch, Michael Jackson.
Randi Muelbach kept remarking
You're such a good dancer!
drawing closer, letting me grab her
saggy ass. My boogying was a sort
of two-step hip gyration while holding
my plastic cup of grain alcohol level.
I had perfected the arm that remained still,
kept it out like a bird feeder. Randi
glued elbows to waist and swung
forearms, hands and hips furiously.
She was sweating something fierce.
Her perfume was foul swamp flowers.
From the futon on her floor I watched
her pull her dress over her head.
Fat and sadly flat-chested,
legs already bluing with veins, thick
knees knocked in, the way the back
wheels of a Volkswagen buckle with a load.
Disgusted with myself--two years
in college and still a virgin--I would
stick my dick in a girl and end that.
As she stepped out of her underwear
I said, After tonight I don't want us
to ever talk again. OK?
That's what I said.
She looked down at me and said
Sure, like it was nothing.
Through the cinder block walls
I could hear that whole dorm writhing
on a Saturday night. Even Kim Putnam,
the born again who wore only long skirts
and was losing her hair, was getting banged
and moaning like a wild woman.
Sometimes it sounded like a crowd
ooh-ing and ahh-ing at a car accident;
sometimes I heard the night as one fuck
xeroxed and traveling room to room
like a rumor, or luck--good or bad,
either way, I wriggled and fought
on top of Randi Muelbach,
who kept whispering in my ear
Such a good dancer.