"you have to be a virgin,
to touch a unicorn."
I said, looking at
the huh forming in his shoulders,
over my bowl,
of spicy tomato bisque,
with an air of hmmm,
while his half eaten citrus shrimp salad,
began to crawl off his plate
when his words wouldn't.
"I was at the age where I
wanted a tattoo of a unicorn."
referring to a just revealed footnote,
on his forearms, as two male unicorns
faced each other, hot, but...
I knew him as
Mr. Bumblebee, he dismissed that
tattoo on the back of his neck as a small
insignificance, waving it away, as if it were a
fly instead of the sexpot of the floral world,
I was more cautious, bumblebees
survived the flood, unicorns didn't,
according to the bible of Mr. Silverstein.
"Unicorns aren't gay." I sputtered.
as if we were sitting over an ouji board
at a slumber party and he had just stolen
my pretty princess pink pillow with
L.O.V.E. glittered on it in cursive letters,
instead, of in a gloating half lit Sunday night
conversation bar.
"What?"
he stabbed a shrimp with his triton, (bumblebee),
as words came out in a carefully
placed syncopatic torrent about his friends,
symbols, gay culture, while the shrimp suffered
his unintentional crucifixion.
I actually thought they were gay,
but I didn't know why. I suspect it
had to do with a sticker collection
I had once, and not a symbol of male
to male sexuality, I'm not sure what he said here,
it would be unfair to give him a line,
he doesn't deserve, except to say he parried well,
while I fretted, stuffing truffle fries in my mouth,
is this a girlfriend conversation,
or a boy toy conversation,
did men always talk so casually about unicorns?
why did I care, but I did,
care,which kind of conversation it was,
screw the f'ing unicorn,
so I changed the topic,
"I'd ride a unicorn naked on a beach."
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