This morning I woke up

and stayed in the blankets for a while

all warm and comfortable.

When I got up I saw pre shining

in my penis hole in the sunlight

and I thought about this body.

I thought about how this penis

has been licked by a dog,

multiple actually.

I like that I can say that

of this body part. That whenever

I’m using it, even masturbating alone,

it is a penis that has been licked by dogs.

Not even just for the memory of the pleasure,

although, I thank those dogs for that,

but even just for the knowledge that

it happened, that sweet dogs are what

this penis has been used for, for them to lick.

It makes it a joy, a point of delight,

to use something again that has been used for that.

I thought of these hands—

both, though mostly the left—

that have held a dog’s penis

and his hot and slick knot

more times than I could hope

to remember individually.

I thought of these lips

that have been licked by a dog’s tongue.

I thought of this breast

which has snuggled countless times under blankets

against the bristly yet warm,

soft, breathing,

coat of hair on a dog’s back.

I am proud of how this body has touched other bodies.

I have a lot of things

that aren’t really mine.

I don’t mean that I stole them.

I mean that I have shelves and shelves of books

about straight humans

whose only want is to fall in love with other

straight humans.

I have a Holy Bible

but I am not Christian;

I got it to learn about others,

and it has turned out

to be interesting for multitudes of reasons,

but it is not mine.

I have dozens of CDs and tapes

about straight humans

whose only want is to fall in love

with other straight humans.

 

It makes me feel so far away sometimes,

those being the things

that most easily become my possessions

in this world.

Things that are not mine.

Things that are not about what I want to see:

humans and animals falling in love.

It’s out there, of course.

Online, you can find stories,

spiritual discussions,

and songs

that are the creations of zoophiles, for each other.

If I went to a lot of effort,

maybe I could fill a room

with pooch smoocher books and tapes—

a lot of it probably bootlegged.

But I can’t go to pick up groceries

and impulse buy a cozy zoophile romance

the same way I could for cis het human romance.

Most of my things

do not belong to me.

 

I would be so bold as to say

that the rest of the world is missing out.

If I have still found interest and meaning

in all of these things that are not mine,

others might like a cozy dog romance too.

But I do, mainly,

feel for myself here,

and for other zoophiles like me

who feel so far away from everything.

 

One thing that helps

is that, also among the things that I own,

are instruments.

An electric guitar, a bass, a keyboard,

this pen,

that can make these things I want.

It doesn’t change that most of my things

don’t belong to me,

but it helps to have stopped feeling shame

at the idea of making things that do.

 

Someday I do hope to have a bookshelf

filled with the works of zoophiles

who have also found pens

and actually gotten publishing contracts

and been widely distributed

enough for me to find

and buy on an impulse

when I go grocery shopping.

Or, it would be cool if we printed them ourselves, too.

Kind of like zines but with entire paperback books,

with cool covers by zoo artists,

art of humans and dogs kissing right there on the cover.

Mailing these things around to each other.

I think that could be fun.