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

Grease?

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

$40

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

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