Go Piss, Girl
He tells me,
go piss, girl,
his boots
up on the toilet seat,
the tank his seat.
I’m standing, my
back to
the stall door,
tasting the drip,
and he’s already
stowed the baggie away.
Go ahead,
he commands,
making his hands
into a partition
below his
eyes. I understand
and agree.
My pissing
isn’t for him
to see. I’m a girl,
and there are rules
of decency.
As I aim
through his legs
he keeps his gaze
straight ahead,
on my face.
He watches,
and waits,
a long time,
because I get
stage fright,
and I joke,
and self-deprecate,
saying wait,
you’ll have to wait—
coyly, I hope. When
it comes out,
I stare
down at this part
of my body,
submitting to
relief. What a relief
it is
to be given
permission
to see this part
as girlish,
or neutral, irrelevant.
To let
this body be
what it is.
I look at him,
and then down,
and then at him,
but his eyes are only
one place.
Nicky Yeager is a writer and artist from Austin, based in Brooklyn. You can find them at @bogusnic. nicyeager.com.
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