An Imperfect Enjoyment

So was it me or you? Who asked who first?
And who was it that mentioned making love?
Perhaps, with teenage desperation nursed
by dormitory fantasies, I tried to shove
my growing fondness onto you, let lust chase
more than kisses, look for more than smiles bared.
But once in bed with one another, face to face
and thigh to sweating thigh, I was too scared.
First love, when looked at like a movie in reverse
is always awkward, often fumbled, rarely right.
Perhaps if we could practise, act it out, rehearse
it in advance, we’d make love alright on the night.
Enjoyment more than Rochester's or Aphra Behn
is easy now we’re old, but so much harder then.