Copyright 2006 Herb Cat. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the author's permission.
Please note: this posting celebrates sexual attraction between males and depicts oral sex between males. If any of these offend you or are illegal to publish in your jurisdiction, or you are under the age of 18, read no further.
The characters, locations and incidents in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
As an author, I welcome feedback on my writing. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.
Introduction: Very few of the postings on Nifty are written in verse. And yet poetry enjoys a time-honored tradition in the history of erotica. After receiving a lot of positive feedback to three of my earlier Nifty postings ("The Cowboy Song," "Seven Sonnets for a New Lover," and "Little Boy Poems"), I decided once more to post some poems. These six poems do not form a single sequence as in the previous posts; they were written at different times, under different circumstances, and employ different poetic forms. However, they share a celebration for the visual enticements of the male body.
- DECEPTION
I'm in the closet everywhere. The world thinks I am straight. I know I'm lying. I don't care. The benefits are great. I walk the streets and every guy who comes my way and passes by gets checked out by my lustful eye and not a single one knows I committed mental rape.
I stop to watch the men get set to fix the fuckin street. Their muscles glistening with sweat, they labor in the heat. One guy pours tar, all hot and black. He doesn't know I watch his back. When he bends over, it's a fact, I see his hairy sweaty crack; my heart, it skips a beat.
I hit the gym near every day to keep my body fit. That naked men are on display is another benefit. The locker room is where they doff their clothes, and show their cocks (some soft, some semi-hard), then shower off and like a piggy at the trough, I'm so enjoying it.
2.A NEW REGULATION
Concerning young men's fashions,
I'm not one to oft complain, but what idiot designer,
strolling by the river Seine, thought the proper beach attire
for a well-endowed young lad should be big and loose and baggy?
Modern swimsuits make me mad!
When I once went to the ocean
to enjoy a day of sun, balmy breezes, some beach-combing,
and a little seaside fun, as college boys played volleyball
and frisbee, I could smile for tight lycra-covered packages
used to be the style.
One regulation I would add
to those posted by the shore: Men under thirty have to wear
a speedo, nothing more!
- INADEQUATE LIPS
How can my humble lips begin to praise my handsome lover's skin, or to what earthly fur compare his godly crown of dark, rich hair?
With what words could I ever trace the features of his lovely face: his piercing eyes, his roman nose, his luscious lips? No choir knows the syllables to rightly sing the adulations of my king?
His mouth, his chin, his shoulders broad no human language can afford the tribute that all these require. His pecs, his abs, his pubes, inspire but I fail to find the words that could describe the wonder of his wood.
My mouth is mute as any rock. All it can do is suck his cock.
- A PSALM OF PRAISE
Your dangling dangle, the beckoning finger invitingly poised over hair-covered globes -- may I be the cantor of praises, the singer kneeling in worship, divested of robes, composing the psalm that will soothe the king's torment, blowing the shofar to summon the choirs of sensuous stirrings too long laying dormant; such worshipful hymns your steeple inspires.
- I'M DICK
I'm Dick!
and I will not be ignored.
Bury me `neat layers of cotton Shut me behind zippers
I will not be ignored.
Pretend I am not there when you speak to your sons about sports cars barbecues Give them "action figures" that leave me off
Action?
Air brush me out of the picture
I will not be ignored. Pixelate my moving image
I will not be ignored.
Bowdlerize Expunge my name from the language You will devise another pseudonym or euphemism
for I will not be ignored.
In Papua, Japan and Ancient Greece, they celebrate me with huge phallic poles Yet you think you can conceal me
in silence.
- THE MASTURBATOR'S SESTINA
Each night when I get home at six o'clock (Perhaps five thirty if I had some luck with traffic), I slip off my jeans and jock and take in hand my long-neglected cock which locked inside my pants all day was stuck and start to give it a good wank. Oh fuck!
I know, you think it's best to really fuck and so you pity me at six o'clock. But since I live alone, I'm kind of stuck. Without a fucking bud, I'm outa luck and so my fist is partners with my cock and they pretend I'm with a hunky jock.
"Come here, buddy," says this phantom jock, "and let my asshole get your super fuck. Nothing feels better than your giant cock inside me. I could take it round the clock. >From now til dawn, with any kinda luck Inside my fuckin chute your dick is stuck."
"Yeah, let me hear you squeal, like you're a stuck pig!" I order my imagined jock. "I'm gonna rip you open. With any luck you might survive this marathon of fuck. And then tomorrow morning, five o'clock I'll send you packing, ass n balls n cock."
But suddenly the cum shoots from my cock, and now my fingertips with jizz are stuck together like the hands on the clock: just past six-thirty. My imaginary jock is just my fist. Perhaps some day I'll fuck him. Hell I can dream my lousy luck
will change. Why shouldn't I have some luck? I let go of my tiny flaccid cock and go into the bathroom. What the Fuck! I wash my cock and get my hands unstuck and halfway decent, put back on my jock. It's now not yet even seven o'clock.
My cock, now settled in for a fuck- less evening, back in my jock is stuck. The clock looks down at me and sneers, "Good luck."