Two Ms. Schadenfreude Poems

Ms. Schadenfreude’s First Time

It was curiosity more than lust

that finally made her do it,

the need to see for herself if the act

lived up to all the lurid lore

of shalt nots and gotta have its

she’d been hearing her whole life,

all the hype about a hymen

she wasn’t even sure she had to lose.

She chose, for her partner

in crime, a boy she trusted

would not kiss and tell, not brag

of his exploits to too many friends,

since he, like her, had few

who would bother to listen.

So they fumbled and panted and moaned

through their few minutes of splendor in the grass—

equal parts awkward and awesome.

Then finally laid, they continued to lie

in silence, sticky fingers twined, feeling

(they agreed) less changed

than they’d expected they would be.

Still they embraced, sweet companions,

beneath the moonlit sky and sighed.

Ms. S knew that in some far-flung future

some other she’ll then call lover, might inquire

about this occasion, ask about her initiation

into this now post-virginal state

from which she can never turn back.

She made note of the boy’s smooth chest,

the rhythm of his breathing, the musk of his sweat

mingling with the sweet scent of honeysuckle

that must have been blooming nearby.

She would have to claim him forever as her first,

hold a perpetual place for him in her memory—

if not her heart—though maybe, she thought,

that’s what the metaphorical heart really is—

a kind of remembering you can never let go of,

that never lets go of you. The idea compelled her

to turn back to the boy, kiss the little mole on his neck

that suddenly struck her as endearing,

then his collarbone, his nipple, his navel, his . . .

Dear reader,

let’s exercise some discretion here,

give the poor kids a little privacy.

We all know where Ms. S. is headed

in this moment, and how the boy

will react, how passion blooms and booms

and dooms us to further vicissitudes

of passion—that Pandora’s box

that once unlocked lets all hell break loose

in our lives. And—if we get lucky—now

and then, a bit of heaven, too—

each little death a glimpse of the god

who can make the earth move in the body.

Ms. Schadenfreude Coins a Kind of Koan

Her head is full of arguments

That she can never win.

How can a girl count her blessings

when she’s too busy fighting sin?

Or wallowing in.

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