I have stood at the rail in the glare of men’s gazes
touched the dull-throbbing brass, the dark-lacquered wood
the weight of their insistent eyes.
A city such as this
houses all manner of hunters;
submissives scatter like white-rumped doe
with tails lifted in invitation
Bright handkerchiefs flashing, loaded with scent:
the rich stink of piss
the cloying musk of sperm-laden tissues
clotted together in the corner of a stall.
To stand at the trough urinal
dirty tiles before you
and the man to your side sly-gazing.
The motion of his hand down low
a blur the mind omits from remembrance,
a dark spot that will not hold the light.
The tile is so bright it blinds
and the torrent of your star-crossed lovelorn fetish
cannot provide the masturbator’s hands
with something worth holding.
About the author:
Marcos Soriano lives in San Francisco. His work has been published in print and online, in journals such as Quick Fiction, Instant City, Fogged Clarity, and Titular. He blogs at notesfromnormalcy.blogspot.com.