A Fable of Washington D.C.
The lonely phallus said to the lights, "What art thou?"
"A bright-living, fast-dying phenomenon," the lights said, "neither male nor female. With pretty hair. No, you can't fuck me."
The lonely phallus sighed. "How did you know I wanted to fuck you?"
"Everyone wants to fuck me," the lights replied. "Women want to squeeze the brightness and heat between their thighs, want to have radiant scorch-marks. Men want to dive in, as you do, head towards the light, go back to death, and not forward, irrevocably. I don't know what the transgendered want to do. It's probably not categorical. Children want to give me a wet willy or the chills, depending. Or they want to see how to hold a shifting ball of light between their hands, before swallowing it."
The lonely phallus said, "I am true to my own nature. Nothing else."
"As am I," the lights said back.
The lonely phallus asked, "And what is that nature?
"The essence of light, it is a great secret," the lights said, "but I'll tell you if you give me your mirror."
The lonely phallus looked as pleased as a phallus can look when it is already fully erect, "I was already considering giving you my mirror, it said. "To double your pretty hair."
"Then listen closely," the lights said. But they had already faded by this time.