My doctor says
you’re shaped like a walnut but I think you’re shaped like a heart.
I’ve loved you
since we first met, eighth grade, I was straddling a fence in the schoolyard,
balanced on my perineum and the pressure suddenly exquisite. You made my whole
body sigh, including the muscles in my pelvic floor that control bladder
release. I wore proudly your love’s yellow stain.
My beloved
prostate, from the Greek prostates,
literally “one who stands before”, “protector”, “guardian”. Divine exocrine
gland, male G-spot, the second-most sensitive part of my body.
In our teenage
years we were precocious. Too excited for our own good, the girls who called us
“Quick draw”. Ours was the shotgun approach to intercourse, one pump and it’s
ready to fire but lo how we’ve grown together. Practiced patience, resolve,
thousands of Kegel exercises. Now we can run coital marathons, 90 euphoric
seconds.
I love you
because you’re the gateway to my urethra.
I love you
because your secretions account for 50-70 percent of my seminal volume; also
100 percent of its colour, that lustrous Mother of Pearl or sometimes Corn
Silk, like white with a tinge of summer.
I love you
because your secretions help make my sperm more alkaline, to neutralize acidity
in the vaginal tract.
I love you
because you’ve never once complained there’s no acidity in a fucking condom.
I love you
because when it gets cold you stay the same size, and because no one cares how
big or small you are, especially how small.
My dearest
prostate, no amount of facial hair could ever express my love for you, my deep
and abiding affection. For you alone I would consider the “other” kind of
threesome.
As for these unworthy vows: amare et sapere vix deo conceditur. (“Even a god struggles to love
and be wise at the same time.”)
