Desperate to be part of the night，

    we jerked like a bunch of spazzes

    to that screaming eunuch， Michael Jackson.

    Randi Muelbach kept remarking

    You're such a good dancer！

    drawing closer， letting me grab her

    saggy ass. My boogying was a sort

    of two-step hip gyration while holding

    my plastic cup of grain alcohol level.

    I had perfected the arm that remained still，

    kept it out like a bird feeder. Randi

    glued elbows to waist and swung

    forearms， hands and hips furiously.

    She was sweating something fierce.

    Her perfume was foul swamp flowers.

    From the futon on her floor I watched

    her pull her dress over her head.

    Fat and sadly flat-chested，

    legs already bluing with veins， thick

    knees knocked in， the way the back

    wheels of a Volkswagen buckle with a load.

    Disgusted with myself——two years

    in college and still a virgin——I would

    stick my dick in a girl and end that.

    As she stepped out of her underwear

    I said， After tonight I don't want us

    to ever talk again. OK？

    That's what I said.

    She looked down at me and said

    Sure， like it was nothing.

    Through the cinder block walls

    I could hear that whole dorm writhing

    on a Saturday night. Even Kim Putnam，

    the born again who wore only long skirts

    and was losing her hair， was getting banged

    and moaning like a wild woman.

    Sometimes it sounded like a crowd

    ooh-ing and ahh-ing at a car accident；

    sometimes I heard the night as one fuck

    xeroxed and traveling room to room

    like a rumor， or luck——good or bad，

    either way， I wriggled and fought

    on top of Randi Muelbach，

    who kept whispering in my ear

    Such a good dancer.