Invisible

The beefy man, soul-patched, saunters
towards me wearing the same raw silk suit he stashed

on two separate occasions in a $7 locker before fucking me
in the complete privacy of the orgy room;

me wedged between his thrusting torso & crusting wall;
him licking then cooing in a basso profundo—oh baby;

me gymnastically arching my ass
in synch to his hip-hop gyrations

fingering his low hangers slapping my perineum
like a riding crop slapping a racehorse;

and now on this empty street my pheromones flit
in a queer man’s estrus commingling with his whore-bathed musk

                    but I…I…I…
                                        …am invisible

to this man trotting, blinkered, nary a nod of recognition
as he bolts through the bathhouse door

 

Spinning the Top

His massive arms tattooed more
like a gangbanger than rodeo rider
and machismo, fierce with patchouli, chained
to his neck with a gold-plated Jesus
but man-oh-man did we ever bust the bronco
like seasoned vaqueros

a hissing steam room our home
on the range and us not caring of the corner
viejo indolently whacking
or perhaps my trick did
so pushed me knees down to the pooling tiles
cheek pressed to his hooded pinga

and for continued encouragement
of my horse-snorting cock worship
offered no more coaxing than a bit
of head-patting & chin-stroking
and hard as I might try
to induce him into equal participation

by reining his face into mine
and sugarcoating his pretty-boy lips
with the sweetest of besos
any hint of reciprocity on his part
dissipated as quickly
as the puffs of vapor wetting the air.

A soggy towel saddling his neck
he stands in front of me now
all bowlegged rough trade
giving me back nada but his jackrabbit
thrusting until I spin him

around and tongue his silky culo
tickle a spit-slick finger in knuckle deep
and at that plushy pull of the trigger
he bottoms as quickly as all that

riding my prick like a mustang
bucking to thunderclap
whinnying the entire while—
aye popí aye popí aye.

 

The Beautiful Room

It was really an attic over a garage
housing a red ’47 Chevy truck
my brother swore he’d restore,
yet I held this room as the secret place
where a teenage me thrilled to thoughts
of touching another man,
and was in such a reverie
when my father, snooping, followed
a light faintly cracking through the jamb
and on jerking the door open
found me with my jeans
and white Fruit of the Looms
shucked down to my gym socks,
a muscle mag in my left hand
while I furiously pumped
my dick with the right.
Dad lingered in the doorway
a little too long for comfortable propriety,
one calloused hand fingering his trousers
where the crotch zippered shut,
his other unfastening and pulling
his hand-tooled leather belt
lazily through the loops
as his eyelids, finally, lowered
with him mumbling something
about train up a child; and after
he yanked me to my feet—my ass
still bare and welting as he beat me
for beating off—all I allowed
myself to feel was his breath rolling
off the back of my neck,
him wheezing with each stroke
like a marathoner hitting the wall.

 

© 2007 Joe Eldridge - Contributor's Bio