Dear Straight Men

After Denice Frohman’s “Dear Straight People”

You are not invited

I know that may sound exclusionary

Almost like being told no

a word which must be foreign,

odd, maybe “queer” to you

You are not invited

To eye fuck my girlfriend

while she is standing right next to me

You are not invited to

cross-interrogate us

asking

“but, how do you do it?”

“but, your fingers are so small.”

“but, why use a plastic reproduction

when you could just have the real thing?”

You are not invited

to offer your golden dick

on a silver platter

to fuck the gay out of us

You are not invited

to this holy trinity

me, her and some divine entity

me, her and definitely a vibrator

me, her and stop fucking asking

about a threesome, man

You are not invited to

search Pornhub for lesbian porn

then turn around and vote

to strip our rights away

I remember when I first came out to my mom

And she told me, without skipping a beat,

“I’m so glad, you’re not a man, because

it’s easier that way, you know…

people think it’s sexy… two women together.”

Yeah, I know all about that

So sexy, they either want to bash

my teeth in or make a man out of me

the minute they calculate that

I am not her friend, sister, cousin

She is all shea butter glimmery

three beers tipsy

red mini skirt and five-inch heel bravery

and I know, all she wants to do

is pull me onto the club dance floor

and show me what her ass looks like

in a different spotlight

I reluctantly agree, assuming position

of watching for men that are not invited

Men, who will grope, coddle, cop a feel

At the climax of her favorite song

she is so lost in kaleidoscopic energy

that she doesn’t even notice me

face palm a man’s entire face

to push him away from us

knee another man in the groin for

trying to shove his way between us

His elbow hitting my throat

as he mouths the word “move” to me

At the beach,

studying for finals

she is spitting thesis statements

at me, while I chew on poetry

sticking blades of grass in her bikini

my favorite form of flattery

Obnoxiously taking photos

of her body while she shakes

a notebook at me

When I look up,

too foolish to assume we are alone

there are eyes glued to us

five contractors

painting the same wall of a condo

with absolutely not a drop of paint

on their brushes

they are definitely not invited

On the subway in Chicago at 2am,

she laces her hands between mine

trying to anchor herself to a

false sense of security

maybe if I was a man, this is

how she would signal to the

group of men staring at her

that she is mine

but I am no match against

eight drunk men on the L

so, I pull away from her

My car is broke down in East St. Louis

we are waiting for a tow truck in the snow

at a biker bar full of more drunk men

I know all she wants to do is ease the tension

She wants to full-body laugh and lightly

brush my arm at a punch line

My eyes tell her not to touch me

But we haven’t been dating long enough

for her to know my body language

when she brushes her hands on my hips

at the pool table, I tell her firmly now,

“You know I don’t do PDA—it’s not safe.”

She erupts into anger

red, hot fury spilling from her mouth

screaming that I am ashamed of her

demanding that she is going to walk back to

Iowa by herself in a snowstorm

She has never dated a woman before

Who am I to tell her these rules?

Who am I to tell her our love is not authentic?

Who am I to tell her we have to prove our love is authentic?

Who am I to tell her this isn’t a phase?

Who am I to tell her when it’s safe to kiss me?

Who am I to tell her what defines safety?

Who am I to tell her she has an entire fucking lifespan to live

encountering men who are not invited?

Who am I to tell her that men will always think

they are invited, privileged, entitled?

Who am I