Appetite

Spring Rush

12 Spring Rush The college boys have pulled their shirts off and are playing football on the lawn. Their farmer tans pink in the afternoon sun. They toss and jog, slight fake and almost tackle. One puts his face too close to another one’s stomach, grabs the guy’s waist—steady—to keep from falling; then a damp armpit on the back of his neck, as a blond wraps his arm around him in a quick guy-hug. I am older and pretend not to see, furtive in sunglasses, looking at them, past them, at them. I could ruin the game by watching the wrong way—professor gawking at students; even a shift between them could change everything: a hand more than smacking an ass, someone pressed too long against a humid chest. Crash of skin, body pushing body into perfect crush. Their biceps bulge, un-bulge, bulge again. It’s not that I want them. I’ve had enough men, and yet I can’t stop looking at them while trying not to look at them. ...