The man on the train with the
casual boner is reading The Beautiful and
the Damned. He reminds me I’ve never read
that particular book and I’ve also never had
a boner. What’s more important: to read every
novel by F. Scott Fitzgerald or to feel
what this man feels daily, nonchalantly,
this everyday taken-for-granted erection
beneath Adidas exercise pants?
To feel it just once, as a woman, a woman
who isn’t saying that her body is
the wrong one but who’s always, I mean
always, needed to test that out
herself. Not the Adidas
pants. Just the erection. Not for
sport, but to be certain.
The man sees me glancing at
the spot where he juts out. He
probably mistakes the way that
I want it.