A bodiless hand forces unto me a cup of spiced rum. The thought of ingesting it makes me weep openly. I would first slurp fetid standing water straight from the concrete of the parking lot. I announce this fact to nobody in particular. Nobody in particular announces to me I lack specific organs of my gender. I hear no dissenters. I consider the declaration. I grope myself and breathe a sigh of relief.

My antagonist assaults my mentality with crude references to coital activity with a goat. My forehead collides with the cup atop my lap. Laughter surrounds me. I am afflicted with shame. My female companion reminds me of the fellatio to be received. I am inspired. The cup hits my cheek and slides into my eyeball. I reconfigure. My aim on the second attempt is true. One, two, three, my cup is empty. I announce my sexual fortitude to the women in the room.

I stand involuntarily and stagger forward. My stomach contracts and something falls out of my mouth. I remember I ate corn and ravioli for dinner.