Playing basketball is only sexy after a certain threshhold;
maybe age or bulk, but skill doesn’t alway wake my breath
below my chest to tickle my belly with the whisper of his moves.
Most just look like twigs flopping with a too large head
sweat stink instead of sexy, and redness too wet
on their skin to want pressing against my clean abs.
But I can watch college ball for hours moving slow circles.
I don’t remember finding that same desire in school,
can’t recall sitting in wood and metal bleachers with
school color ribbons, red and yellow, holding ponies cheering for short
cropped hair over muscular shoulders and easy jump shots.
Not like I drool over fan pictures where you see the giant
swell of their arms, their wide shoulders, looming above
smiling fake blondes in loose blouses and tight pants;
There are no dominating men at this gym, tossing hoops
that I would let engulf me in their skillful shots.