He is inherently masculine, the perfect embodiment of male.  It forms in solid layers, the singular embodiment of this entity that possesses a form of acknowledged life, perhaps even a soul burning somewhere inside.  He brings together two disparate chromosomes to form a potent mixture that falls into proscribed roles already predetermined possibly hundreds of years ago, and then throws it out so it sticks to another.  It isn’t personal.  He is not me nor you.  He is outside of that circle. 

She says He, and he stiffens, swiveling his head to pinpoint the particular specimen she’s referring to.  Sounds rise up his chest, to his throat, before he clamps his teeth in front, trapping them, afraid of whether they’ll burst out as antagonistic or pitiful whimpering, neither one welcomed.  He watches the other male, tracking him step by step, measuring, evaluating, comparing.  What about the other man catches her eye?  And does he, himself, possess those qualities?  He still can’t figure out why she chose him, out of every possessor of the Y chromosome alive in this world.  Maybe, at the moment of meeting, he was the only fitting option, and, as she steps out further into the world, more options, better fitting options, will coalesce before her, drawing her away from him.  And he can’t bear that possibility.  She is his.  Even if everyone she meets falls at her feet, and why wouldn’t they, he is the only one whose fingers twine with hers, whose nose nuzzles the soft hairs at her temple, who knows the imprint of her body against his.  She says He, and he wraps his arm around her waist, whispering inside jokes to her until she laughs and forgets everyone else in the room.

Got is crass and unrefined, greedy and grasping. It possesses, a casual confident ownership of the situation. Sometimes, it transforms, pulling on new meanings like temporary masks, a cheap disposable replacement good culture demands to be eradicated. First, it pulls on an imperative, an exclamation of outraged surprise, then, it turns and a new facet exposes, insidious, infectious, wrapping grasping tendrils through the soul.

She says Got and the word slides against him like the silk-warm caress of an over-affectionate cat. He is owned by her, so he is in good hands. His heartbeat calms, his stomach unclenches, and his teeth release his beleaguered lower lip. It’s strange that she’s so small next to him she has to tiptoe to kiss him, but as soon as Got falls out from behind her crooked teeth, he feels so safe, so protected, like if he hides behind her, the demons chasing him will skid in their tracks, wheel around terrified. He knows how fierce she is, how undaunted when faced with his trouble-infested past. Perhaps this is what Joan of Arc was like, or a mama bear when a stranger blocks her view of her cubs. She says Got and he curls tight in her embrace, a protected child again.