The strongman is an object for hilarity among the yokel kids. His pectorals and gluteus, slabs he flutters at will, are all the sex they've ever seen closeup. Once outside Albany, a hilly cowtown, he found a boy in overalls crying in his trailer after the show. “I lost the bet,” the boy says, “I got to ask you if you're queer.” The strongman takes some iced tea from his cooler, mixes in some gin, pinches the boy's triceps so he goes green with pain. “What I like,” he says, “is queer movies, queer books, queer music, and queer girls. I saw a sunset once in Susquehanna County so queer the farmers all came out in ballroom gowns and frenchkissed their cows. So show a little respect.” Now the boy's undoing the straps of his overalls: “Mister, can you show me how to do my tit that way?” The strongman thinks, this is gonna take more gin…
From Sentence: A Journal of Prose Poetics, No. 3, copyright 2005, Firewheel Editions. Used with permission.