“I still know tons about theater.”

He gives me side-eye. “I can tell when you’re acting. Don’t get me wrong: you’re a good actor. You should just keep it on the stage.”

I look down at my Playbill. Does he hate me? I’m self-conscious and there’s no pages to flip on this damn Playbill.

The lights go down and Elijah starts clapping. The whole crowd is rowdy, ready to see some skin. Eight men come onstage in various bathing suit and underwear combos. Elijah sits up straight, his hands gripping the torn-up armrests, with a smile as big as Broadway. The crowd gets on their feet, hollering at the men. Begging them to get naked. It’s all in good fun. Like the title promises, the eight men onstage get completely naked by the end of the first song. Halfway through the third song, “The Bliss of Bris,” Elijah leans over to me and whisper-yells in my ear, “I am living my best life. But if I ever think about auditioning for this show, please lock me in a basement.”

“Will do,” I say, laughing, as the men dance onstage with their dicks flapping around comically. I watch the oddly shaped things bounce around, all different sizes, some hairy and some not. Some circumcised and some not. When the guys do a kick line, I see too much.

I look down at my pants. Nothing in there. I feel like I was assembled wrong. Born missing a part. I’m afraid I’ll never feel complete. Cis guys grab them so proudly. Talk about them. Send pics of them. Have sex with them. And I’ll never know how any of that feels. I could never join Naked Boys Singing. I had no idea this show would bring me here. Theater always has a way of moving me, but this time it’s in the wrong direction. I spend the rest of the show in my head, thinking about my missing part.

The final song brings everyone to their feet. Standing ovation. How could we not after the actors have revealed so much? Elijah is whistling loudly.

As the crowd finds their way to the exit, Elijah says, “Let’s wait for the actors.”

I look at my phone. Curfew is an hour and five minutes away. I’m already cutting it close. “Please,” he begs. “Pretty pretty please?”

“I’m going to be late,” I say.

He stops. “You have a curfew? Don’t you live with your aunt?”

“It’s the only rule.”

“It’ll take ten minutes,” he promises. “I want an actor to sign my Playbill.”

“Are you sure that’s all you want from him?”