This jockstrap was ordered online from an Australian company while I sat on the living room floor of a haunted house.

Many racist ghosts and yard signs and American flags with lynching gazes flooded the crib from each window and screen door. This nigga was near the end of summer and the only nigga.

Genuinely. I saw a nigga at Walmart, and we acknowledged one another (as niggas do sometimes) and kept it moving without care. This wild love common.

But my spot in Billings, Montana didn’t want to fuck. Just wanted this chocolate baby boy to beg for a hate load to chain my heavy chest.

I be a simple monkey that drank whiskey, ate vegan burgers, and mowed the lawn with painted nails like a disguised born sinner.

“Daddy, you can choke me, but not too hard. No one is allowed to kill me because I have always liked the color pink,” I would say to whoever was listening, maybe the ghost that slept with me at night.

The morning after I bought this racy thing, the block could hear me rapping Biggie.

“Gimme the loot! Gimme the loot!”

I was ready to start robbing for myself back as I prepared my morning ice coffee the way twinks do.

I got some mad love.

Now I kind of like the idea of being fucked in jockstraps. Actually, I like-like it!

I didn’t start buying jockstraps until I quit being a jock.

Isn’t I lovely? Isn’t I wonderful?

All them balls I’ve played with and dribbled, fondled, held, and slept besides, and shared. Never have I wanted to cherish them in pretty pink nylon.