Evening, New Year’s Day, Atlantic City

Who was the last person to look at

To even notice

This specific smudge

Of whatever it is, too close to my bare palm


And from what or whom?

Shaped like South America

On the wall of this stall

This bus terminal men’s room stall?


At 7:15 PM on January 1st 

Sticky tiles

Sickly fluorescence

No one in the lobby beyond the door


Sadly, twice what she was asking

I stand, she sits

She’s completely trashed

And I’m completely trash


How is this stall so cold?

The breeze on the boardwalk is warmer

The only warmth in here is her wet mouth

Which might be dirtier than the porcelain beneath her

I recoil as I touch the gummy wooden partition to balance myself

Yet I’m fine with her coating my shaft with her diseased salvia

I really am the dirtier one


Her warmth keeps me hard

My erection will die if I think too much

Still I struggle to focus on what she’s doing

Distracted by a draft and by where my year will go from here

Another fantasy might help, but I’ve forgotten old acquaintances

Watching makes it worse, closing my eyes helps me feel

I need to finish and catch my bus


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s