GLORY
THOMAS J. MISURACA
The park bathroom hides within the night fog. With each step, the dewy grass moistens my boots and the cuffs of my jeans.
Avoiding eye contact with passing figures, I push open the wood door. My nostrils are assaulted with the stench of urine. I shield them with my nicotine and spearmint scented fingers.
The door creaks closed and my shadow lurks among other shadows. Some stand, some kneel, some sit. Silent, but for the occasional rustle of cloth and stifled moans.
Ceremoniously, I stand within a stall, unzip my jeans and slide myself through the hole in the cold, metal divider. On the other side waits another, like a priest anticipating my sins.
With a careless caress, the ritual begins. A warm, unseen mouth brings me to life.
I close my eyes and think back.
Back to those Sunday mornings when Billy brought me pastries and coffee in bed and snuggled under my arm as we ate. We read the paper in comfortable silence, breaking for the occasional kiss.
Before that, Juanus, who surprised me after work with rosemary chicken by candlelight, chilled Zinfandel and chocolate truffles. After, he burned incense, ran a bubble bath and recited his poetry while washing my back.
And before that, Gary, my first. We walked the beach hand-in-hand, not giving a damn what the rest of the world thought. As the sun set, we uttered those three little words to each other.
In the darkness, I grasp those feelings, letting the pleasure ripple through me as the warm mouth completes its task.
I ejaculate into the void.
