Like a blossoming black star In some abysmal Hammer Horror— In this bright, empty-bellied hotel, I recall, before our lively tenure As on-fire teen wrestlers, The summer-to-summer stretch That we incorrigible thespians (Acned, raring to go, and graced With ever-ready erections) Started impersonating blood-sampling “Champs and Vampires” — Count Dracula versus Barnabas Collins!— And our delightful horror show duel Suddenly veered (as if some leering demigod Or lust-inducing satyr Had waved a magic wand) Into our first heedless kisses, Our first blissed-out thrusts And quick-as-a-hare climaxes— As you recall, your tree house Was aptly christened “Collinwood West,” (You were obsessed, naturally, With that creaky-as-a-crypt-lid soap, Dark Shadows) And my own cobbled-together perch Was dubbed Lord Dracula’s Castle— Today we’re the untried inn’s Absolute first and only welcome guests, So nobody but nobody can detect Or fault my sudden gasps As our at-ease siesta, Started in separate beds, becomes More than your average August siesta— In our marvelous, semi-nervous, Yet still vigorous faux-wrestling, Followed by our surprise, Volume 8 No 1 - Page 35

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