SHOWERS

Boys are showers or growers. In the first compulsory communal showers in the cinderblock grey square of my middle school, the boys shed their acid-washed jeans and fleece-lined jackets and rushed into the water. They kept their glances to themselves. And I believed that I could hide my nub. I was a grower. Grown, my penis was completely normal sized. I’d done measurements and checked the charts. My penis didn’t become flaccid. Rather, once stowed, it was the size of a marshmallow and the color and texture of butter left on the counter. I took solace in the idea of the Hulk, of a tiny man who grew into a gigantic veined muscle. He was a man-sized grower. However, in the hot steam of the shower, as the boys gingerly washed and kept their hands in motion, waving over their privates to keep them private—no one wanted to be caught glancing down—I was curious, because even these evasive maneuvers could not hide that I was surrounded by showers, flaccid hulks the color and texture of butter left on the counter.

MATT BRIGGS

We were walking up to the potlatch a few minutes late
when you turned to me and said you are a giant drag.
I said what makes you think that when I’ve got this ass-
pocket full of gin and whippits. Oh jesus she said and
reached down to pet the pot belly pig we were bringing
to the potlatch after forgetting completely last month to
bring anything at all. What have you ever done to prove
you aren’t a complete faker she said. Nothing I thought
then said and said does it really matter I said why don’t
we just drop the pot belly pig and wool blankets off at the
potlatch, tie one on, and go do it behind the long house
on that sweet willow bench between the two totem poles.
We’ll save the whippits for dessert I said. I have everything
I want you said. I know I said and wiped an emerging tear
from your bottom eyelid with the corner of one of the wool
blankets. Me too. I led the pig into the steamy house
and shut my ears to the good time. We walked around the
corner of the long house and I spread out my jacket on
the bench like a real gentleman. I didn’t think there were
real gentlemen anymore she said. There aren’t I said as
I dug in my pocket for the whippits. You’re going straight
for dessert she said. I rolled my eyes and passed out.
The gallery on the two retired totem poles behind the long
house frowned disapprovingly, except for the low men,
a rabbit and a badger, who sort of chortled and winked
like rabbits.

GREG KOEHLER