There is no need to hide my cock,
to compress it, regret it, to tie it up
in a knot—to sleep in a bed too small,
to wear heels or a puffy hat
to make me seem tall.
There is no need to fake it, although
I prefer cherry red lipstick,
dresses that are too tight,
revealing the bulge in the night,
the platform shoes that make my legs
seem long and slim.
No cover-ups, no excuses;
I do not tolerate abusers,
or chastisers for wearing panties
instead of cute-printed boxers—
God, I don’t want to look like my father.
Set me on the crooked path,
away from the strait and narrow.
Today, I want a taste of danger,
and tomorrow, drink the wine of sorrow.
Mark Tulin is a retired therapist from California. Mark’s books include Magical Yogis, Awkward Grace, The Asthmatic Kid and Other Stories, Junkyard Souls, and Rain on Cabrillo. He’s featured in Cafe Lit Magazine, Still Point Journal, The Opiate, The Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Amethyst Review, Vita Brevis Press, White Enso, WryTimes, and others. He is a Pushcart nominee and a Best of Drabble. Visit Mark at www.crowonthewire.com.