The Cherry

I am the only one who can do it.
They all think they can and I suppose on some level they do harvest some something, anyway.
I like it with them, don’t get me wrong it’s just not the cherry I’m after when I go the course alone.
Not even my ex-husband could do it…none of my ex’s could.
This isn’t why we broke up, none of them even know.
Was it fair to them, the taste of climax I delivered, so assuredly?
Would it have been better had I told them my secret,
my shameful secret, but why the shame? Would they have tried harder? Would it have diminished the experience in their mind, unsuccessful alas, no surprise to me, but them, defeated?
But I can do it and so occasionally, I do.
It seems more accepted for men to do it.
Maybe we’re just trying to be lady like and not discuss it.
I wish I could disrobe the shame I have dressed in.
What’s wrong with me, why can’t they do it, damn it.
Reaching for resolution I contemplate.
We enjoy it with others so why shouldn’t we enjoy it with ourselves.
Men do it all the time.
Of all the men I know in the world I bet at least ten are doing it right now,
or thinking about it anyway.
Soft flesh.
Warm water.
Bright sunlight.
Cool breeze.
Crisp sheets with the innocent smell of clean laundry.
Or perhaps the musty smell of a man who tried last night but is absent now, left alone to enjoy a moment of pleasure, different from the one he provided, that some something.
I don’t think about it all the time, in fact I hardly ever do, but when I do, I seek the pleasure that I know awaits me.
I am the only one who can do it.
I suppose they can do it too, just differently.

By Mariska Nicholson
Photographed by Penny De Los Santos
Submitted 5.15.09