The doctor asks me which cheek.
I point left, lowering my jeans.
Sorry, it’s thick, he says, and I don’t have time
to make the obvious joke.
Hot flashes, he warns. Insomnia. Chronic
exhaustion. No libido. No erections.
You have about an hour, he says as he leaves.
To masturbate, he adds.
One last time, he didn’t say.
Back home, I insert myself
under the top sheet. Who
should be the final object?
Jeff, the college rugby boy who loved
frotting? Tommy, who wept
whenever he fucked me?
I settle on pure fantasy, pulling up
a photo of an obscure novelist
who’s ignored my whiskey-lubed DMs.
He’s standing with his husband
near a sculpture, an uncut marble penis
floating to the right of his head.
Touching myself, I become that hovering
cock, arriving where I’ve arrived
at least ten thousand times
over the past four decades—the crest
of a cliff, a breast about to lose
its final drop of milk. I run my fingers
across that tender strip
the doctor jabbed repeatedly:
a line of scabs, raised like braille.
He shot me up with gel,
separating my prostate
from my rectum. I’m almost
soft again, so I jump
on the Hub and flit between tabs,
a jumbled jitter as I stroke myself
hard as before, back
at the edge, typing out my frenzied
want, then suddenly tumbling
beyond it, that final lip—my final finish.