After the poetry reading,
I join a friend at the bar
on 12th St. We haven’t seen each other
in a few months. I missed the quiver
in her lower lip
as if on the verge of tears.
Her fingers flirt
down my arm,
but she speaks non-sexual things
into my ear
over the music
& cacophony of chatter.
On the dance floor,
I try to mimic
her undulating body
to ’90s music.
In the ladies' room,
I help unzip her
black & red jumpsuit.
Glimpse of white skin
like new porcelain,
shoulder
hip
thigh.
As she sits,
I look away
into the mirror,
brush away a curl.
My cock would be hard now
if it had enough testosterone.
Instead, it remains quiet
in black cotton panties.
My friend slips
back into the jumpsuit.
Full breasts I wish to have
ripple like Jell-O in maroon bra.
I zip her back up.
Two girlfriends wait for us
in the hall,
one of them is also trans.
The bar is now crowded.
With caution, we shuffle
through mountains of men
with stoic faces.
After taking my friend home,
we say goodnight
with an embrace
almost like lovers.
Later, when I lay in bed,
I feel a drop of wetness,
cold between my thighs.
