Poetry
David Bowie Sex Dream #1
Kevin McGowin
Me and Bowie are reclining on a fluffy blue round bed out of the 60s. He opens a can of Copenhagen and tells me he's trying to quit smoking. I reach onto the nightstand and give him a Nicorette. "Tastes horrible," he says. Two retired opera singers named Franco and Carlo are going down on me. I have on a black shirt and Bowie's fully clothed. He lights a Dunhill and leans back. "So," he says, "I haven't caught since 1978. I only pitch. You'll have to catch today." I tell him that's just fine; with him, I say, I wouldn't have it any other way. Carlo moans, but it's not him Bowie wants.
Bowie's on me now, fully clothed (as I can see from the headboard mirror). He uses lambskin condoms. Franco and Carlo are in the corner now, singing the duet from Bizet's "The Pearl Fishers." Bowie is huge. He leans over and breathlessly whispers in my right ear, "We're getting metaphysical." He snorts some Rush and holds it down under my nose as he pushes in. I inhale deeply.
Suddenly we're someplace else and I know it's Europa, one of the moons of Jupiter. Franco and Carlo are turning into rocks and screaming. "Don't be afraid, it's only water," Bowie moans. A flock of egrets flies by.
I tell Bowie he looks good for fifty and I'm glad he's a Capricorn. He smiles, a bit disinterestedly. We're through and we're now at this outdoor cafe in Europa and Al Jolson and Jacques Brel are on a stage singing a duet while we sip double espressos that I paid for. "I should do more songs like that," says Bowie, and I notice his long fingers have turned into oil pastels. He draws a picture of me sleeping on the table and I wake up sweating.