writing

pulling mom jeans on over wet thighs

short breaths through my nose and short sips from my glass. each mouthful tumbling down my throat into a warm belly. reaching over, i set my glass between the boys. "watch this for a sec"

deliberate steps carry me to the restroom door which is plastered with various club promotional posters. men bound in leather and bright colors splash out at my eyes. i place my hand on a glossy print of a man's torso and swing the door in on it's hinges. inside red light illuminates the black walls. a toilet faces the interior of the room, divided from the urinal trough by a miniscule wall. my eyes flash to a sign. "please, no laying in the trough"

how would they get home? the boys. the ones who'd lay in the trough. i mean, you can't call a cab covered in piss, right? did they pack extra clothes? to the bar? i doubt it. maybe they'd remove their clothes before climbing into the splash zone? that's probably the case. but i worry about those boys. the ones who'd lay in the trough. how would they get home?