I Cried on the Carpet in the Mornings After a Blackout

Everything i had gleaned about gay sex was from snippets of the late night programmes that were broadcast after the government watershed genes prisoners, derik garman's caravagio and chat line adverts. I loved the men's underwear pages in my mother's little woods catalogue, but they taught me nothing about sex. The man addressed me over the cliff of his shoulder, talked down to me in the same condescending way mister hughes explained polynomials and hypotenuses. He said it was all right, because i was the one inside him. Then he bucked, presented himself again and said, it didn’t matter anyway. No one could be that unlucky