Dear Co-worker,

I couldn’t help but notice your discomfort while standing next to you at the urinal in the office bathroom yesterday. Being a gay man, I’m no stranger to the discomforts straight men feel by my mere presence; particularly in communal spaces like restrooms, locker rooms, saunas, parks, bars, sidewalks, classrooms, subway cars, matinee showings of The Book Of Mormon, or any other room that we inhabit at the same time. I just want to put your mind at ease by letting you know that I hear you and see you… and I like what I see.

Your knee-jerk instinct to hide your member from me may seem homophobic to the vast majority of people since it’s borne out of a belief that gay men are constantly prowling for straight men, but you’re not the vast majority of people. You knew that my favorite thing in the world is to stand next to another man and stare at his ugly, fleshy, leaking genitalia.

The urinal is a gay man’s number one penis viewing ground. I don’t even have to pee when I step up to one. Gay men don’t pee standing up. We do it on all fours while screaming Madonna lyrics. I frequent urinals for one purpose: the trembling, splotchy dick that fits in two and a half of your knuckles, particularly when I see that you have your other hand in a clenched fist, ready to strike at the mere inkling of a glance.

The cat and mouse game you made me play only made me want to gawk at your aptly named junk even more. When you cut your stream short and quickly zipped up your pants, a burning desire I’ve never felt suddenly overcame me. It didn’t even matter that all the other stalls and urinals were taken or that I was looking in the opposite direction to make an intensely vulnerable experience slightly less awkward. You knew exactly what my intentions were.

What you don’t know, however, is that those little adjustments you’re making to hide your naughty bits are useless. If we gays are known for anything, it’s our fashion sense, impeccable peripheral vision, and our ability to extend and contort our necks like Inspector Gadget, especially when we’re trying to get a view of a completely unexceptional straight dick.

You can’t escape my gayze. If you only knew what I could do to your floppy, disturbingly pale meat muppet, maybe you’d take me into the stalls for an up-close examination instead of shooting daggers from the sink while I nervously try to find literally anywhere to look that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.

I was so depressed when you shuffled away with your hands desperately covering your muggy pubic mound, as if my x-ray vision can’t pierce through flesh and khaki. The air in the room was so fresh without it, and I suddenly felt like a part of me was missing.

That’s why I was relieved to find you at your desk, aggressively avoiding eye contact as I walked by on my return. I’m still salivating thinking about your distressingly horrible torso trunk forming the antlers of a crisp moose knuckle on that ergonomic mesh rolling chair.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day. What with the anxious, sideways glances you gave me as you speed walked by on your way to the copier and your discussions about the previous night’s revolting exploits placed perfectly within earshot, I had to constantly cool down with my misting fan just to keep from violently ripping my clothes off right then and there.

I almost lost it completely when we briefly walked past each other in the hallway, me on my way to the break room and you with that despicable log holding a cup of tea in your overworked right hand. Never has another man’s sudden and stiff “hey” affected me so much. At least, I think that’s what you said. I couldn’t hear over the sound of “Lollipop” playing in my head as I stared at the bulge in your dungarees.

Luckily the smell of freshly ground coffee woke me up and focused my mind for a while. I’m working through lunches for the foreseeable future to pursue my dream: starting the world’s first peen peeking business.

I’ve amassed hundreds of overtime hours because my inability to naturally father a child gives my employer the right to work me until I die. That’ll be more than enough to outfit all the urinals in the office with “Piss Cams” that I can use to live stream your horrendous pelvic horn for all the gay world’s viewing pleasure. I’ll make sure that the urinal on the far left gets the first camera since it’s your favorite.

So, the next time you see me step up to the urinal beside you, don’t be so shy: whip out that oily, rotten man baton. It’s the only reason I get out of bed in the morning. While you’re at it, wave to the urinal cake and your 15,000 viewers. We all just want a glimpse of your flaccid disco stick while it pushes out toxic liquid. Yum.

Or maybe I’m just trying to stand at this urinal and pee.

Sincerely and in perpetual thirst,