If you’ve run into a restroom and left the door flung wide open; pulled down your pajama pants and boxer shorts with a single tug and sit to avoid the trials of aiming; released, withheld, and released again; pulled up your shorts again but too soon (underestimating the duration and/or volume of the post-release dribble); accidentally dabbed the cloth of your shorts with little blots of urine from your shriveled member; walked the room over and replaced your damp shorts with a dry pair: this is a mark of privilege.


At every open window I confront I immediately, if briefly, imagine the consequences of jumping out right there and then and swiftly conclude, “That’d be fucked up.”


Due to an error in anatomical strategy my blood veers sharply southward off the aorta and I find myself engorged in semi-erection while a baby sits on my lap. Her parents look on unknowing as I twiddle her tiny toes and feign a smile but inside I despair, and a drop of sweat drips onto my brain from the roof of my skull.


When you visit I might still have some strange red dots on my inner thighs. I am not diseased! I just misguidedly attempted to shave some errant hairs there; I know now not to.

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