First Paragraph of Imaginary Urinal Short Story

I feel like I’m the sort of person who people get curious about what my dick looks like when they’re standing next to me at a urinal. They might feel an unidentified urge to peek over. To peer or to peek, depending on the infrastructure. Sinistrally. Surreptitiously. But while I know of their curiosity, I know not from whence it comes. Nor do they. Nothing about my zipper dexterity or an aural inference of stream strength or the length of silence between the one and the other suggests non-Euclidean geometry, a repulsive carbuncle, or an ironic tattoo of a Wonderland fungus.

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