First Time

I wear the blue Versace polo shirt,
one size too big, my mother bought me.

We meet in Thissio, sit outside
a bar by the Temple of Hephaestus.

He looks different from the pic he sent –
balder, heavier. But he has a smooth voice,
the kind they use in milk or yoghurt adverts.
I lie about my age.

I have a Moscow Mule in a coral bottle.
He drinks something in a heavy-bottomed glass.
We talk about our summer plans.

A taxi takes us to a place north of Omonia Square.
In the dark hotel reception, he pays
5,000 drachmas. A blue note. I don’t contribute.

Even with the window open, the room stifles.
On a tray, laid out like wedding rings,
two condoms.
He keeps the light off.

I’d expected lovemaking to be
a soft, easy affair –
a seaside room,
the scent of lemons,
lapping waves.

Instead, this angular, stinky wrestle,
and his voice turning childish,
he calls me baby
as we soak the bedlinen.

We dress in the dark.
We don’t kiss goodnight.
If there was blood on the sheet,
it isn’t the sort tradition likes
presented from a balcony.