What I loved was order:
the four urinals
like boats upended,

tastefully tucked in the corner;
the squares of splotchy
black-on-green linoleum;

the thinning warp of the mirror.
Four foam dispensers,
in the pink --

someone cared.
And lust, on the stalls' actual marble,
no-nonsense, civilized:

Me: 6′1, 170, slim build,
you: be hairy, clean, healthy,
and not looking to get off.

No fats, no fems, no trolls.
Bottom seeking top.
Reciprocation is not necessary.

Foul air; beer;
locals in stonewashed jeans
leaning against scoring tables

lamplit, ash-stained --
each Thursday, before the bar,
we went bowling.

I took an amateur's pleasure
in the release,
the long roll

of my borrowed ball,
the pins' fall -- when they fell.
It was 1993:

the boys and I
were killing time, we
who couldn't even skip a week

when R. died, then J.
We knew we were not immune.

Leashed by our friend Amy
dressed head to foot in black --
black heels, black tights,

black her stringy hair,
dyed for the occasion --
Dale and I brought up the rear,

the two of us twins
in cut-off shorts
and combat boots;

in leather jackets,
borrowed; dog collars
from French Addiction

snapped onto our necks;
our thick black eyeliner
the distinguishing mark

of submission,
of the leather slut.
Inside, a wiry man

with a handlebar mustache
stared me down. I was shaken
when I saw my reflection

in the bar mirror,
so I downed Tanqueray
and tonic, hoping to God

none of my students were there.
And when Dale and I were led
onto the dance floor,

when our dominatrix
commanded us to get down
on all fours, when I saw Dale

howl like a wolf
into the houselights,
the bar whooping it up,

I knew. I knew I was in love with him.