Under a Stack of Towels, 1991
Fez Avery
In my parents’ bathroom closet
a glossy magazine with bold white letters: PLAYGIRL.
By accident, I’m standing in the doorway with the towels
tucked under my arm. Throbbing. The GIRL in the title
puzzles me. The boy—no, man—his bare chest
on the cover, glows and shadows in valleys of smooth
thick muscle. He throws his head back into the dark. One arm
stretches down into his unbuttoned jeans. Belt loose, I trace
the veins with the pinkish tip of my index finger. Shiver
at the crease and bump and fearing peeling
back the denim, I fold it back into hiding.
First period, English, I rush to the restroom
when I feel it: a slow loosening. Gape at the stain, dark
sludge. Underwear with tiny purple flowers. The tube wrapped
in thin plastic from the metal dispenser is alien inside
me. I’m proud. I stilt back to class searching for looks
that say they know: I’m older now, prettier, like girls born
in the last months of the year. I glance again at the boys
who know me by name. Wonder, animal, if they sense it.
Hunger is stalking me. I sneak back into the bathroom.
It’s a bad October. When I finally flip the page
there are so many to devour: bulky, beachy, girly; swimsuit
bottoms smaller than mine; mustache thick and no body
hair at all. I double my dinner but still can’t
make a dent in the hunger. I visit the men
between meals until the burning softens. I’ve been
making up names for my favorites: Hairy Harry, Mr.
Handsome, Jeans, Fast Eddie, and Conductor. Second
period, my stomach catches fire. I try naming the boys
in class to quell it: Skinny, Boxers, Banjo, Teeth. I see
them watching me. I could eat one whole. For lunch
I have two hamburgers dripping BBQ sauce with soft golden
smiley fries. I asked the other girls if they’ve gotten it yet, if
they’re hungry, do the boys know. The pretty one
sucks Diet Coke through a straw and says of course
the boys don’t know. She got it last year and what do I mean
hungry? I say you aren’t hungry all the time? They chew
forkfuls of air. One girl does it with her boyfriend
and craves Rocky Road the whole week. I think she’s a liar.
Fez Avery is an MFA candidate in Poetry at Virginia Tech, where they also teach. They are a recipient of two Hopwood Awards and a University of Michigan alum. During summers, they teach poetry, spoken word, and creative nonfiction at Interlochen Arts Camp. They recently completed the chapbook The Rules of Witch Stick with co-author Karyna McGlynn, and are at work on their first full length book.