Heavyweight

You’re a stranger, but I’ve met you a dozen times already. You always find me in dark corners of loud dive bars, or, more recently, in my DMs late at night. The interest you feign is not for me, but for a perceived service you think I can provide. Like my genitalia and my gender expression are a Sexual Satisfaction Drive Thru for the convenience of your garden-variety cock. I don’t know this iteration of you, but I know you. Anybody cursed with an attraction to men knows you, has tolerated you, been hurt by you. Your scent is the beer on your lips and your shirt, your only good shirt, was chosen by an ex-girlfriend who you say is…