A Pornographic Image of a Naked, Shaven Youth Arouses Sexual Desire and Subsequently Provokes an Inquiry into the Ethics of the Exchange

Warning: This one is is long and sexually explicit. Please do not read it if you are offended by that kind of material.  Just skip to one of my pretty-flower poems instead. Also, please note that “youth” refers to a young man of legal age.


I am the camera, framing the scene, focusing on body parts,

documenting but also creating the image of you as sexual object,

on your back on the bathroom floor, legs in the air,

arms looped back and under to reach for your ass,

lens delighting in the view of your smooth contours,

your body totally hairless, taut youthful skin by nature alabaster,

sunned just enough to give it a golden glow, the camera panning

along the arches of your widespread legs, the angle of your neck

with head thrown back, eyes closed but lips opened to

perfect white teeth, down chest an over firm round balls,

zooming in between cheeks pulled apart to the rosy,

spit-slickened asshole into which you have inserted the first

finger on your left hand, the thumb moving up toward the balls,

the other fingers curved in to stroke the perineum, the camera

loving what it sees, reveling in the beauty of the young, male

form, but also exploiting desire, yours, its own, the viewer’s,

devouring innocence as a glutton shovels down food.


I am the razor, the cold steel blade denuding your armpits

and pubes, gliding through white cream to clear the blond fuzz

from your sternum, erase the trail leading from navel southward,

stripping the hair from your lean but shapely legs as it mows

its way from ankle over calves and thighs to waist, lingering

a bit over the difficult spots—the depression behind the knee,

the frontier between the back side of the upper thigh and

the lower curve of the buttocks—until you are sleek and bare,

smoother than any girl, pivoting to reach around and behind

your tight pink balls, sliding along your crack and around your

fuckhole, as you begin to enjoy your shavedown, as evident from

the precum oozing from your still half-flaccid cock.


I am the tongue circumnavigating your ear, exploring its canal,

entering your mouth through its wet red lips, forcing its way

between the dental battlements, tangling with your drawbridge

and aiming for your tonsils, retreating from that conquest

to licks its way from breastbone to crotch, from the crevices

between the toes up the inside leg, and then, by way of

tactical diversion, touching the tip of the cockhead,

tasting the sweetness of the precum from your now-

hardening dick, encircling the head and working its way

down the shaft and around the twin fruits near bursting

with ripeness, and then, saving the best to savor last,

sneaking down to invade your juicy, finger-spread boi-pussy,

pushing its way inside and licking all around, making you

squirm and quiver and moan as surrender to the ecstasy of the intrusion.


I am the rock-hard cock feeding your face and your fantasy,

breeding your tight, freshly shaven, lube-dripping pussy,

jamming in hard and then pumping you slowly at first,

but steadily, prodding your prostate, and then fucking

you harder and faster until you scream and spew fountains

of jizz all over your face and chest as I discharge my load inside you.

And I am you, the desperately dick-needy young slut,

sex-crazed to the point of obsession, entering the house

from among the hot but unavailable young men you have

lusted after for hours, stripping off clothes on your way

through the house until totally naked you enter the bathroom

for the ordeal of grooming yourself for faggot whoredom,

the hot buzz of the clippers, the sensual experience of

spreading the shaving gel over your entire body from the

neck down, the slow and careful strokes to avoid nicks

and achieve the perfect smoothness of a Greek

statue’s cool marble, the aching in your loins as you

resist jerking off before you’re finished, the thrill

of your hands caressing yourself, feeling the smoothness,

that first lubed finger slipping inside, taking your time,

then finally fucking yourself to orgasm with the dildo

until you shoot your load and lick up the mess,

feeling spend and vaguely uneasy.


I am the viewer, the consumer of your image, undeniably

aroused by the sight of your total exposure, the laying bare

not only of your naked, shaved, smoking-hot body, but also

of naked desire, of your lust-driven need and vulnerability,

which I, as intended, want to consume and devour, to exploit

for the satisfaction of my own animal lust. And you want it too,

whether you have staged this scenario for pleasure, for

profit, or just because you couldn’t stop yourself. And my having

doubts about the ethics of using your own bare need

in the service of my own does nothing to alter the response

of my own mind and body to what I see spread out before

in glowing color on the screen of the magic box.


Afterward, I am a different viewer, the one who notices

details and raises questions. The photo is clearly meant to give

the impression of you there alone, enjoying yourself,

in the fullest possible sense of that expression, maybe

intentionally producing some home-made porn in the process,

snaps to post on the Web yourself, showing off

for strangers whom you will never meet, never know, perhaps

for a small profit, perhaps only for the thrill of doing it.

But who’s taking the pictures? Your hands are occupied,

and even if you had a remote-controlled camera on a tripod,

some of the angles would be difficult. And if you really are shooting

your own photos, surely the more probable case for someone of your

generation would be a camera attached to your computer, except–

where would that computer be exactly? And why take

the photo in the bathroom? That would make good sense

if you were shooting the actual shaving, which can get pretty

messy, although that pink carpet would be impossible to clean

afterward, and it is in fact spotless. But maybe you’re not home alone…

If the bathroom is the only private place because there are

roommates or family members roaming the house, that certainly

lends some excitement to the scenario, knowing that someone

could burst in on you at any moment, and if that’s the case,

then I concede that your pretty shaven balls are bigger

ones that I would have suspected. I do want to believe

that the photos are authentically amateur—wouldn’t a

professional have editing out that distracting toilet in the

background and noticed that your hair, brushed up and

back in this shot like a starter attempt at a pompadour

or fauxhawk is down in bangs on your forehead in the

rest of the photos in the series, definitely a continuity error.


And then I am the thinker, the worrier, pondering the nature

and implications of network of communicative exchanges

which led you to appear in this image and me to view it.

Is the situation all good fun, with each participant

willing and eager, or is merely shameful objectification

of the human form, the ruin of your innocence for

the fleeting satisfaction of the viewer’s desire or

for someone’s financial gain? But then again, perhaps

that would imply the loss of an innocence that you

never had. Who can say if you are the exploited or

the exploiter? You have participated in the creation

of the image, and I have participated in its consumption.

And clear the photo is pornographic; no one will

even try to debate its merits as a work of art.

But does it, as the accusation runs, darken our minds

or only illuminate what’s stored in the attic?


Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper


The Darker Side of Fashion Theory

An anorexic adolescent girl with a penis,

pale skin and chest-long hair frizzle-fried with bleach,

displayed against a wintry grey drop for the magazine spread,

when outdoors spring is blooming, greening,

gilding skin and bronzing cheeks,

tries for pay to sell desire for summer sweaters

to young men who couldn’t begin to afford them

and would roast alive if they wore them in July.

Designer, marketer, photographer, editor, model, viewer

all know a twenty-something on the street’s

unlikely to purchase a thousand-dollar cardigan,

the magazine itself’s already bought,

and the delicate model’s hardly the masculine archetype,

so what commodity is actually being traded?


Here must be the logic:

Clothes sell best when skinny women wear them,

but straight men, afraid of looking girly, will resist

wearing men’s clothes modeled by women,

so the next best thing is to have them modeled

by a  pretty young man who looks—though everyone knows

that it’s sexist to say so—pretty much like a girl,

and then the straight boys will look because at first glance

the boy’s a girl, but be willing to buy because he’s

still a man despite that first impression, but still

won’t be able to afford the merchandise

if they are young enough to want it;

but in fact the dude holding the magazine

is almost certainly gay anyway, and though

he can’t afford to pay retail either, he’ll know

where to find the good sales and discount racks,

and has probably been planning some shopping already,

which is good because the model in the picture

is probably too effeminate to attract him,

unless he’s shopping for feminine clothes.

because he’s into drag or pondering a gender transition.



And so, the men’s magazine spread advertising

men’s clothes by male designers for sale to men

still manages to objectify women and perpetuate

a stereotypically narrow view of feminine beauty

while simultaneously exploiting a young man

who fits that idea of feminine beauty, rather than

the rugged masculine ideal, which the male readers

might view as  threateningly unattainable

or as dangerous competition.


And so, when all is said and done,

after viewing the magazine spread

by means of which wealthy fashion moguls

exploit the anorexic bottle-blond girl with a penis

exploited for his/her conformity

to an idealized version of feminine beauty,

some skinny gay boys will go buy

some cheap T-shirts from the sale racks,

and that, boys and girls, is how the fashion business works.


But the clothes are so pretty!


Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper