I want to know what makes me want to see
one man call another his ‘boy’ and fuck him.
Oh, Freud would love this disaster.
I know I’m not the only one. It’s a whole
godforsaken genre. How many times
has a hookup called me boy,
asked that I call him Sir or Daddy? And look,
it worked. It got me into a jockstrap and out of the house
on a Wednesday night. God strike me down,
it was hot. I snuck out of my bedroom window
one college summer for fifteen musky minutes in his car,
and when I got back I hated myself for it.
In Chicago there’s a bar called Jackhammer
where downstairs you can’t wear clothes.
You can only get drinks in plastic, so there’s no glass.
Condoms are provided. There’s a tub for piss –
a baptistry. This night – a sabbath for dangerous sex.
I once saw a man in ecstasy, sober, slung up
in a leather saddle and chains. His ass was bleeding,
but I couldn’t look away. I walked closer to him,
saw his leg tattooed with the biohazard symbol.
His nipples were pierced. He screamed in pain,
but he kept saying Please, Daddy, more.
TEO MUNGARAY is a queer, chronically ill, latinx poet. He holds an MFA from Pacific University of Oregon and is pursuing his doctorate at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. He is a co-founder and co-EIC of Cotton Xenomorph. His poems have recently appeared in or are forthcoming from Drunk Monkeys,Sycamore Review, Birdfeast, Five:2:One Magazine, Cosmonauts Avenue and Glass: A Journal of Poetry. He has a cat named Lysistrata. You can follow Teo on Twitter.
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