When piss catch you, nothing sweet pass to turn for gutter for side of road, remove prick and piss. Nothing sweet pass.
Been thinking of the idea and reality of being male the last few hours on and off. I’ve never seen a reason to problematize or apologize for it. Can’t be helped, like the weather. One is born that way. One tries to cope as best as one can. So, a few minutes ago, I realized something. Sometimes, being male is not a contra-distinction to being female or relative to anything. It can a category all to its own. And we often miss this.
I’d been out writing, while drinking a big Guinness, until I was driven from the Lounge for a party. I went to the ATM to look for some money. There had been an urge to pee right from earlier, but you see, the writing was going well. And you don’t want to risk it, you don’t want to jinx it. So, I’m now walking the streets to the kebab place, it’s dusk already, and the urge returns. Insistent.
So I stop in front of a gaudy new Pentecostal church, I felt it was fitting, and I peed. Pure, simple, exhilarating peeing. And it had nothing to do with a woman, nothing to do with power and gender and anything. Nothing to do with sex or God or where we go when we die. Nothing to do with what anyone thinks. Or which country criminalizes what. And I felt really good. And it felt really good. And I thought, this also, is what being male is. This, also, is male.