Men Who’ve Looked At Me (Vignettes)


The man with a calm look makes me uneasy, measuring my waist for a university experiment. Did it please you to see that scrap of my skin? (Although I never said that.)


Mid-point of summer, on a tram ride. There was a dull metallic bang and everyone struggled to see an accident. No one said anything. (I didn’t see it so I don’t know how bad it was–if bad at all). There’s a man in a suit who wouldn’t stop looking at me. He had a face that sticks. He unfastened his pants, gestured for me to sit, then carefully put his dick away.


At the airport line, rushing to pay for an overweight bag. Someone kept putting their eyes on me. He came up and put his hand on my shoulder. My face rushed with blood, blushing at this man. He said, “Put your things in with mine. It’s already over the limit. Is this a book of poetry? Are you flying home?”


In the backyard of a bar in Newcastle. The light was wrong, yellow. Green in the corners of the yard. I was too high, and in a mood. A boy said my name twice before I glanced over at him. He called my full name so he must have known me, but I couldn’t recognize his face.


M, his face when he said he’d get a tattoo of my name.


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