for Greg Weiss
The act: playground speculation. Do we need speculums, external genitals, sex?
Would our necks flex backwards? The tail? Surely cloacal stimulation can count as sex. . .
But scientists don’t know how we do it! They only just learned to verify dino gender
from bones; erotic arts remain an unknown fossil—frottage as likely as immersion sex.
Posterior presentation is the dominant theory—nothing that hasn’t been enacted
in Barbie’s Dream House. Still, pink elevators can’t hold our bodies or the organs that mark our sex.
Exhibit A: our flattened crotches. They clack, never conjoin. No Tab A for Slot B, no groove;
this is love we can never have: no Dino Double-Down, let alone Tyrannosaurus Sex.
We need role-play—stego skirts to peek beneath, archaeopteryx chaps, the big drag show--
and kids to bang together our slick bottom halves. Their performance matters during sex.
And I, Compsognathus—of dainty jaw and triple digits—surrender to five-pronged hands.
In them, balance comes easy. I hump like a bird. My flesh lingers, chaste. The plastic is sex.