Hetero’s and their sexual fantasies about Homos

do Homo women like me dream of being married, 3 kids

husband who can fix the black mold in the cupboard

next to the dish-washer? I buy take-out and you watch

TV like it’s a strip-show. Idly I count the number of times

you look at me (0) and imagine a man, smiling as I

look shy, pushing the hair away from my cheek, as he fixes

the dish-washer. The fantasy doesn’t go to our bedroom

there are too many naked women in print on the walls to

condone that. Tomorrow we’ll try to get up early and swim

(for my heart, for your waist-size), I won’t check out the

other girls at the bathhouse because my fantasy husband is

what I spend my downtime imagining. His ability to ensure

water isn’t leaking in the kitchen window, or the shed outside

won’t collapse with the next storm. I want you to see me

I won’t tell you that, I won’t ask for love after this long, I’m

very female that way, curving into myself, shutting off

and I know that won’t help anything, my fantasy husband

knows it too, he says, remember how happy you were? Go

on, take her hand when you’re walking, buy her a cream caramel

or get that stain out of her best white shirt, she loves you

this is just the miasma of a long relationship, you don’t

really need me, you know you retch at the smell of men

wasn’t that the first clue, aged 12, sniffing your best friends

hair, the recoil, the way the girls always made you blush and

the boys were people you climbed trees with? It isn’t so binary

I snap, but for me it was, very binary, I love your breasts and

how your wrists flick out of shirts like a magician, it is true

a man can wear a pair of jeans well, but I want him to plant

my new pear tree not bury his face between my legs. Sometimes

I order pizza on Friday’s just so you’ll get slap-happy, take a gummy

laugh with me for a bit, over an old X-File episode, maybe we’ll

touch, or kiss, fool around, and our husband will smile, wipe his

forehead, and leave by the back door.