We don’t like scary movies. We always go, but never watch.
We take the back row seats, those awkward ones, always empty.
We get popcorn with extra extra-butter. A dipping cauldron between us.
Our mingled fingers come out glistening. Slippery. Intent.
When the big screen opens with shivers and shrieks, we improvise our own.
Between pale legs, I finger deep, my fervor seeking that hunger within.
You, more fairy-like than fiend, cajole my magic mushroom amid the forest ferns.
Scene by scene we fuck our script until the credits roll.
Then we lick fingers and wait.
There’s cartoons coming next.
