in the water closet

“Suck my cock! Meet here Tuesday at 8pm.”
As I sit here doing my business my eyes can’t escape this faded proposition on the wall. Without an Aggie I’m defenseless against my imagination and I’m immediately over come by this image of a big lumber jack football player in a flannel shirt and faded jeans that says to himself…
“What the hell, it’s the men’s room and I have a test in an hour that I’m really stressed out about and there’s something about these books….these old smelly books that suffocate me and make me fart and give me a boner while I’m trying to concentrate…. a big one that even squeezing my eyes together and thinking about “Yan Can Cook” can’t get rid of and I have to get rid of this somehow so I can think…. think about things…. think about things like…. astrophysics…. and why it can’t explain why my blue balls are going super nova….so I can think about blue books instead and keep my eyes on trying to skim the five comp-lit books I just bought today whose pages keep reminding me of the white tiles in the men’s room….. where it’s safe…. where I can do it…. and it’s ok because…. because…. because I have a girlfriend that I’m going to marry in a year…. after I graduate in Ag-Econ…. because it isn’t the real world…. it’s a bathroom…. a men’s room where men lock lips and keep them locked after they leave…. where I can get off without having to waste time getting some Beta-bimbo drunk…. where I don’t have to ask nicely or buy anyone flowers or teddy-bears or take them out to dinner so their parents can dissect me with steak knives and eye-winks. All I have to do is write a time and a day and there’ll be someone…. it doesn’t really matter who…. just someone like me…. someone who wants to get off in the men’s room…. where it’s safe…. where gawking little sises can’t see me…. where I’m free from their buzzard eyes that watch me through book stacks and under copy machine flaps…. who wait patiently for any tender morsel of gossip they can get their barbed beaks on…. who no doubt know I have a boner and who I slept with at the TG last week and every Friday since the fall quarter of my junior year…. who are probably wondering why I keep checking my watch…. and always snap their fingers in teeth-bared frustration…. and their heads back to talk about me as I leave to go to the men’s room…. where I’m safe…. where they can’t see me…. where I can do it and not be a homo because I’m not a homo…. I can do it…. because…. because I’m not me when I’m in the bathroom…. I’m just getting off…..”
Finished, I wash my hands and walk back into the real world where my imagination’s safe from the lingering scribble of men in the water-closet.


BD 1992