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I could see he was nervous
without his glasses
as he loosened his tie,
unbuttoned his shirt.
His chest was bright blue.
Always polite,
I pretended not to notice.
Even the red and yellow emblem,
the giant S,
I, always a lady, ignored.
Then he unzipped his trousers,
slipped off his shorts.
Still he appeared dressed.
The belt, the costume,
was perfect trompe d'oeil,
even the folds of the cape.
The tattoo artist
had, of course,
taken certain liberties,
made certain painful,
touchy decisions.
It was worth it.
When he left in the morning
dressed in his tweeds,
the doorman didn't look twice.
But my friends knew
by my face
something strange and wonderful
had happened.
They asked all
the obvious questions.
In my modesty,
I declined to answer.
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