The Out-&-Proud Boy Runs Into His Old Bible Teacher In A Rest Stop Bathroom
Mr. Slater sucks
his teeth, shakes
his dick three
firm times—father
son, spirit—side-
eyeing my Gomorrah
pisser pissing
hard. I’m hot
gossip at his Jesus-
school. He knows
what I want inside
my abominable
orifice—everyone
knows. He doesn’t
say my name, says
nothing, pretends
he never made me
memorize John’s first
chapter—the Word
made flesh. So close
I can smell his after-
shave, I could arc
my piss inside
his pocket without
spilling a single
drop on his leather
loafers. I was his best
student, golden boy
who knew the Good
Book like I knew
the freckled backs
of the football-jocks
who showered after
practice—cracking
towels & stealing
looks, so straight
they could be gay
& get away with it.
O yes, I know
the art of lingering—
this man of God
done pissing but still
standing, fiddling
with his zipper
as he waits for me,
his failure, to lead
his trembling hand
to the place
he can’t believe
he wants.
