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.”)