transman/my grandfather’s aftershave: two

i found it in the cabinet today
as i was cleaning the bathroom.
the bottle was smoky blue,
almost teal, made of glass. there was a milky cast to it.
thinking it was cologne or something of that nature
which too strongly reminded the others of him i started to throw it away–
then i spotted its label:
oh, aftershave

excitement thrilled my nerves.
i put the bottle neatly away,
hurried out of the bathroom to see if i could rush the day forth
to the moment when i could be alone with this new discovery.
i blazed through scrubbing toilets,
flew past washing dishes–
breezed in and out of bringing belated christmas gifts to friends.
then i was home.
then it was time.

i locked myself inside the bedroom– as always–
turned on the shower and steamed myself into philosophy;
a little music inside my head
some words, and I was Voltaire in a waterfall
for all of ten scalding minutes;
i stepped out of the shower clean and ready.
of course, I didn’t shave. I had no need of a razor.
with fingers trembling slightly i opened the cabinet,
pulled out the bottle again (oh, that beautiful bottle! it was like a sliver
of sapphire and jade in my hands

richer discoveries than even the pyramids might unearth!)

i tipped it carefully– oh so carefully– into my palm. liquid manhood,
milky white like semen collected in my palm, and like i had seen television barbers
(and him of course) do i slapped it on:
on my neck like my mother’s perfume ritual,
on my wrists like my own habit. (even i could not eliminate such rituals
for the sake of masculinity.)

and i held my palms to my nose,
breathed in the scents of hot water and Dial,
of a borrowed bottle of abandoned baby wash
de-aging my skin some seventeen years–
and, barely there, the smell of man.

in that moment i was no whimpering damsel
but a lord through and through,
and i gazed into the mirror and felt myself as male
as if a pulsing cock languished between my thighs

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