Mario Rodriguez Wants My Ass

Mario Rodriguez wants my ass
So I slip him my number and now I regret it 'cause he keeps calling
And leaving obscene messages on my machine:
"When are we going to fuck?"
"I want to suck your dick to the bone."
He scares the shit outta me

When he calls me
To leave dirty messages on my machine about eating my ass
And how right then and there, he's sporting a bone
Hard cock while he jerks off. He says it's my name he calls
When he touches his balls and his thumb is up his butt for a finger fuck
Claiming that he's a real sex machine

And can go like a washing machine
If only I would allow him to do me
From behind, in the bed of his truck, for a first-class fuck
Where he longs to poke my butt.
But if I don't return his calls,
He can't lick my balls and suck my meat from its bone.

Mario Rodriguez rants that he's got a boner
In his pants, as he leaves unclean things, on my answering machine.
Friends down the hall say I should trace his calls,
But I think it's kinda sweet, that he wants my me-
At and will not stop harassing my ass
Until we suck and fuck.

What the fuck
he's running a muck, leaving messages after the tone that he wants to bone
my black ass
like the love machine
he wants to be, to me
when he's got the balls to make these calls.

I make a call
To his phone, so he will leave me
alone, telling him that I think it's sweet, that he wants my me
at, but we can't bone,
for his nasty tones, have overflowed my machine
and my boyfriend is sick of this shit, about his pass about my ass.

Mario Rodriguez wants to butt-fuck me
According to all the calls on my machine.
But at last,
he can't have my ass
'cause the tone about his bone, took its toll on a significant
other kind of lover, whose bed I declare is shared with me.

 

Thursday Night Driving

My arms stick out of the window
of your father's Toyota.
Hitchhikers appear closer than they seem.

We hang out at the Chevron
where your friend, Trent works.
I got a Big Slurp, you bought cigarettes.

Big Red in the back pocket of your jeans.
Radio high, beer cans in the back seat,
empty cigarette packs. Eyes pan down
between your denim crotch, that copper zipper

as you shout in the speaker
of Dairy Queen
for double cheeseburgers.
I want you right here.

Forget the ketchup condiments,
the super-sized sodas.
I want to have my way with you
on interstate 10.

I ravish your copper-brown cropped hair
as mini-vans, winnebago’s and Waffle Houses
tare past us. I tare into your Jesus and Mary Chain

tee shirt. You try to concentrate
on the cars in front of you as my head lies embedded
between your legs ajar like two car doors beneath a night without stars.
I fuss with the buckle of your belt, the clasp to your jeans.

I hear nothing but horns blowing above
the sun-cracked dashboard, below the steering wheel.
I take you in my mouth, swallow you whole
until a blaze of blue and red lights cut

across us. "Shit, it's the cops," you yell
as you jerk me off your lap. We pull into a truck stop
to fasten pants, pull on shirts, fidgeting with buttons.
The officer taps on the fogged window with his flashlight

as I sift through a pitch black floor of trash for my other shoe.
He knows we are making out.
We look at each other realizing in a split second
the deep shit we're in and the lies that will have to be told.

 

The Jeff Daniels Look-Alike

He eats my ass in a cum-stained sex booth.
I whisper in his ear that he looks like Jeff Daniels
As he pulls up my shirt, unzips my jeans.
We take turns inhaling poppers before he eats my dick.

He holds a bottle of poppers to my nose before I go down on his hose
In the pitch-blackness of a sex booth.
Hold onto the waistline of his faded jeans
That hangs below the butt of this dude who is the splitting image of Jeff Daniels.

He’s more radiant than the feature film actor Jeff Daniels
With his rock-hard dick
Hanging over the copper zipper of his jeans
In a Christopher Street sex booth.

In the company of our booth
He tongues my asshole unlike the actor Jeff Daniels.
Step out of my jeans
As he hums on my erected dick.

He feasts upon my dick
That lies between my thighs in the privacy of our sex booth
Until I shot my load all over the jeans
Of this guy who uncannily resembles Jeff Daniels.

Got my ass eaten by this Jeff Daniels look-a-like.
Two horn dogs snorting poppers, fondling dick
That hangs from our discolored jeans
That bunch to the floor in a Christopher Street sex booth.

This Jeff Daniels look-alike with a cockring around his dick,
Kissed me and said: man you smell like good weed.
I rose from my knees to pull up my jeans
& I think I will come back tomorrow.

 

©2003 Shane Allison - Contributor's Bio