Charmed by a sexy, blue-wigged girl
cosplaying as Bulma at ComiCon
standing in line to see Sir Patrick Stewart.
She wore a tiny yellow tutu
with the bottom of her ass cheeks
jiggling out like a soft promise.

Later, after a predictable pickup
line about dragon balls, she lay naked
in my papasan chair as I ate her out.
“I want to make you come,” I said.
She said “make it so.”

But it didn’t happen.
I had excuses.
A crick in my neck.
My tongue was dry,
tired and clumsy. I’d
been laid off twice in
one year and my mother
died cursing me.

She gave me a second chance
the following week. She said “spirit bomb
my pussy.” I pulled out all the stops.
An animated pornographic montage
of shonen intensity. My tongue:
pure, dexterous, pulsating
muscle. My sex-wet goatee.
Limbs and flesh,
a sweaty tangled glee.

Here is my future, I thought.
She is me and we are one.
Bad puns, cosplay, brains melting
together in animated, 2D,
seizure-flickering worlds.

I thought: Love.
This must be love.
This is what it feels like to
crush boulders with your
bare hands. To destroy
planets. To have Shenron
resurrect you. To brim
with boundless energy,
training in weighted clothes
to become your strongest,
best self. To embrace destiny,
to make the love of your life come.
Dragon, we moaned, dragon.

We dated for a while after
but it didn’t go anywhere. 
She didn’t let it go anywhere.
Said at some point I had to grow up,
man up, get it together.
Yet if I close my eyes, I can still feel
her thighs trembling against my ears.
I’m the ocean trapped in her shell.
Or a pond, perhaps.
Imperfect forms crushed by
tremendous gravities.

Reza Jabrani writes coarse prose and crude poetry @coarseprose