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Tearoom Poem

John is the guy I never met
until we crossed paths in this bathroom
of shit and urinal cakes.
He stands with his pants and underwear
cinched to those ivory white ankles.

His penis thumps against a tongue of toilet paper
that drapes over pre-gism.
Musty pubes permeate,
cock pointed like a banana in my face.
My tongue is a snake slithering around

that shaft below his shirt, above
his leather belt of full-on lust.
I give myself away in these partitions
thick with metal and ink penned messages.
I save myself for old men

who want to see me jack off,
the men who never give head.
I save myself for the stink breath troll,
smother my dark groin into his aging, bearded face.
Hold out for the cock teasing frat boys

that shake their heads no when I summon their cock
like a towel boy in a bathhouse.
If John and I had more time,
if we weren't so concerned with someone catching us,
I would let him sit his supple butt on the face of vanity.

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