The Emmy Goes to the Echoes in the 59th Street Train Station

And I swore I checked my surroundings before I let one rip in the Lexington Avenue train station. Prayers to the Black woman behind me that heard me use my farts as speed boosts to get me down its lengthy staircase. The echo of three of the loudest poots I ever pooted bounced off the tiles. A stench, pinballed her in the nose. Prayers for the vibrator in my bag fresh off the rack wondering
“Damn, this the house we finna go to? Does she cum and fart at the same time?”

Prayers, to the walk from the sex toy store, the scuffle and fear that rises with the saints. The dildo section and the sudden fall of music. The silence, the camera, the saint. A message to God. A prayer for the church girl, that convinces herself that thinking of an oasis, instead of her shirtless crush will cease the budding lust. A bible, a rebuke, an “I’ll wait till I’m married.” A man, a temptation, a family who fears God.  A vibrator, a sermon, and a boyfriend to mount.

Prayers to the, “do you need any assistance?” The text from father “Are you home yet?” A prayer to be left alone. The gas, the nerves, the scuffling.  The vibrating dildo, the bullet. The, “Wow! That strong for 30 dollars?! I’LL TAKE IT!” The church girl, trying to de-sin herself. The church girl, pretending she doesn’t understand the pastor’s sex jokes to affirm virginity. The shop attendant in the lube section. The love of food, the love of flavor, the love of blueberry pomegranate dick.

The “Oh shit it warms up?” The “Oh shit it sizzles?” The register, an innocent smile, a “FINAL SALE ONLY”. A let me find my card, a let me find my God, a “hold on y’all niggas be trying to return used sex toys?” The butt plugs, a Black woman behind me, in the Lexington Ave staircase, the victim after I let one rip.

The Viewers

You drink for something to do with your hands, and your mouth.


I assumed an F was involved.