Gusher

By Robert Beveridge

Copyright ©2025

Once you started, but before it got heavy

you took hold of my wrist, pushed my hand

between your legs. Then you let go. I know

I moaned when I felt the full spray

against my fingers, but I couldn’t hear it,

just felt it somewhere between my vocal cords,

my ribcage, and my hand, which thrummed

with a sort of acid current, fueled by the hot,

wet contents of your bladder. I shifted my hand,

pushed lower to ensure my palm, as well,

was soaked in you before you finished.

Even after my hand was coated, I was greedy,

needed to feel you right down to the final drops

before I extricated my hand, ran my tongue

over every inch, tasted the musky sharpness

of your piss, sucked every drop from palm,

from fingers, a man in the desert who had gone

years without stumbling upon such a sumptuous,

necessary oasis.

I have become used to relationships

where I’ve been indulged once or twice

before this sacred practice is forgotten

or relegated to a funny/gross story

they tell their friends. This is different,

you tell me. We can keep doing this.

The wellspring is as endlessas

your willingness, my thirst.

About Robert Beveridge:

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). He published his first poem in a non-vanity/non-school publication in November 1988, and it's been all downhill since. Recent/upcoming appearances in We Are the Weirdos, Bitter Melon, and Rough Diamond, among others.