Monica Youn is the author of Blackacre, which is forthcoming from Graywolf Press in 2016, Ignatz, which was a finalist for the National Book Award, and Barter. She teaches at Princeton and in the Warren Wilson and Sarah Lawrence MFA programs. A former lawyer, she lives in New York.
Bad Sex Is Abstract.
the ping pong ball
to the limit
of its elastic
to its rubberized
almost as if avid
almost as if aspirational
they came / to blows / over who / rocked her / world harder
my cul-de-sac my oubliette
my upside-down omega
my pitcher plant my thumb puppet
the mantle of my gas lantern
Bad Sex Possesses Identifiable Formal Characteristics.
Take my advice. You’re no virtuoso.
Licking the alphabet onto her cherry pit,
you somehow never got past g.
“Two fingers inside me and don’t stop
licking.” The off button’s on the fritz;
your ammo’s soggy; you don’t know how
to find third gear. Sigh. She won’t stop
bucking. You’re up the crack without a saddle,
kemo sabe, you don’t know how
to slow her mustang down.
Breaking a bronco without a bridle
is way beyond your pay grade, partner.
You’d better shut Miz Thang down,
already. Far be it from you
to pee on anyone’s parade, pardon
your French, but Bonzo’s
all ready for bangtime. Time for you
to man up, mister. Turnabout’s fair play.
Your freshly pressed boxers
are overdue to be shucked. If you can’t
manage to terminate foreplay,
they’ll stay on forever: you won’t pass go,
you won’t accrue any bucks in her bank.
Mark my words. Vice is no fun without versa.
Bad Sex Demands Constant Vigilance.
Lust surveys its terrain
spies a silky white goat
on a golden chain
a banker pleading
with his lips and eyes
calluses sheathing a pole
a tissue swabbing
a persistent drip
speedbump on the landing strip
Sweet southern boy, your serenade
a Carolina ballad,
But it takes more than marshmallows
to make ambrosia salad.
trussed and stuffed
basted with juices
breast side up
a spice rub
to tenderize the meat
but you fucking forgot
to switch on the heat.