This is what he says, the first time he presents in triage, unmentionables puffed up nearly to bursting, impaled with the EpiPen that has managed to hold the anaphylaxis at bay.

A poppy in bud, he confides, waggles his eyebrows. Two fat sepals freckled with dark stubble, impossibly soft, delicate-pinked petals spilling out the seam. The most erotic thing he’d ever seen.

Of course, I’m horrifically allergic to flower pollen, he admits. Couldn’t help myself, he shrugs.

Later, a UTI. One of the bad ones, Pissing blood and all.

Have you ever looked at a grapefruit? He asks. Really looked at it? All swollen lobes and seed, all dripping juice and pith. The sting- a good sting, sharp, like a crisp open palm across the face, like a ruler rapping knuckles, like a leather belt smacking plump cheeks.

And now? How is the sting now?

When I pee, after I pee. Like lava, he says. Like thumb tacks. He shrugs again. The price you pay.

The resident suggests therapy; the attending suggests a hobby.

I’m getting my PADI certification, he says, eyes sparkling. Sips his cranberry juice.

He’s got a ziploc packed full of ice and an ominous puddle spreading across his lap. His SCUBA fins slap the sheet vinyl.

Possibly oysters are the most yonic of all, he says with his eyes closed. Adductor muscles, gills. Labial palps. It’s right there in the name! He shivers. The Pacific oyster, basically life-size.

Razor-sharp shells, though, he says.

When he opens his eyes they’re bloodshot with seawater.

Have you ever been diving? He’s making conversation. His baggie seeps icemelt onto his flippers. Zen, under the water. It’s basically orgasmic.

He drives his fingers into the cubes. Produces what’s left of his penis: spongy, bloody, bruised. Water-logged and shriveled. Slime-slicked, an iridescent pearl shimmering on the tip.