Just Average

I didn't see,
my eyes busy elsewhere,
glasses uselessly laying on the table,
my hands too clumsy
to tell the difference
and focused instead on wandering,
my mouth so cavernous,
my tongue distracted,
but the finely calibrated parts
between my legs immediately knew.

"Just average", he said.
My guess, he's well aware
of just how average he is,
"You like it slow?"
served up too reflexively
for the grimace on my face.

He didn't want to wear one
but did anyway
"Suffocating"-- his exact word
"Like having your head and neck
Encased in shrink wrap"
as my fingers felt the
over-stuffed sausage casing
pinched at the base and about to burst
but continued, at my request
with a fear of body parts ripping.

I have never been with someone
this average,
recalling the rows and rows
of boxes with "extra-..."
at the pharmacy.
It wasn't until I was there
that I saw the later words:
"-lubricant" or "-thin" or "-thick" or
"-safe" or "-flavor" or "-color".
Of the plethora of useless "extra-..."
only one wrote "-average",
and given the red-sticker deep-discount
it was not a popular choice.

Staring at the sleek black box
advertising "anatomically shaped"
with a blue-jean zipper
meticulously printed on the side,
I wonder how he will now feel
with more room to grow,
and if I should be excited
or worried.