More to the Story

Advisory: Sexually explicit


The morning comes of age beautifully on the beach at Zandvoort,

where the boyfriends wander hand in hand beside the lapping waves,

both wearing hoodies against the chill but nothing else, heads leaning

together as they share a secret or a kiss, obviously delighting in each

other’s company.  In the warmer afternoon, they will sunbathe, take

a swim, unpack good beer and a picnic lunch, maybe have a nap.

And in all these ways, they might be any couple, their tastes

and inclinations mostly unremarkable.


But there’s more to the story: Later in their urban apartment,

the two ivory-skinned Netherlanders, one dark-haired, the other

blond, in their late twenties or early thirties, but looking younger,

skinny and tall, best friends and lovers, entwine their shaved bodies,

grope each other, and kiss, twisting their tongues together,

wrapping their arms into a tight and loving embrace

in a moment of indisputable tenderness.


But there’s more to the story: The darker one is plugged and collared,

and his partner’s hands, resting on his shoulders, take a firmer grip,

and the blond dom forces him to kneel and suck the steel-ringed

cock that later will plow his widespread ass, bent over

rack to which he’s bound in front of the window, begging

for a harder fucking and permission to be unlocked

and allowed to cum just once.


But there’s more to the story: The orchestrated scene completed,

they’ll take a shower and climb into bed together, snuggling up

as equals, as they’ve done for nearly a decade now,

sharing this intimate space as they review the thrills of play

but then turn serious to talk over their hopes and dreams and plans,

the joys and sacrifices inherent in sharing a life,

the challenges of making it work.


But there’s more to the story: The following day’s a Monday,

and they’ll rise at six or thereabouts, drink strong coffee,

and maybe eat a slice of bread with jam if there’s time,

as they check their phones and laptops for texts and emails

and calendar items, making arrangements for the week of work

that will draw them into their different worlds, the business

of their divergent agendas.


But there’s more to the story: In fact, there’s more to it

than could ever be written down, even in an epic novel,

the story of two complex characters with complicated lives,

somehow bound together in love, in lust, in both mutual

and separate interests, in a relationship that endures,

and grows even as it turns and twists, the whole always

more than the sum of the parts.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper




Mister Right Now

After Shakespeare and Mullen


My Grindr hookup’s eyes are kind of dark,

but mostly red from smoking too much weed.

If manscaped chests are smooth, he’s a grassy park;

if appearance reveals class, then he is seedy.


I’ve seen a whole shitload of rainbow merch,

but he’s all in black, a too-old goth.

I know that he would leave me in the lurch

if he got a text from someone hotter.


If colognes were oceans, I could swim in his;

he could’ve skipped the spritz and taken a shower.

But he’s here and his dick is pretty big,

so, what the hell; we’ll be done in half an hour.


He’s about as godlike as a spade,

but I’m fucking desperate to get laid.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper


Advisory: Sexually explicit


Like a mother cat grooming her young

as they grow toward maturity,

I lick your dick until its resting softness

hardens and reaches its adult potential

to fuck my hungry hole until I  scream and take your load.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

Red Gym Shorts

Advisory: Sexually explicit.


I’d totally do the dude in red gym shorts,

flip-flops, and nothing else if I had the chance.

His graceful beauty sparks desire, but it’s

his casual unawareness of it that fans

the flames into a raging forest fire.

At least a head above me, but not too tall,

dark hair, scruffy beard, and laughing eyes

behind rectangular glass that make him look

intelligent and cultured.  The lightweight shorts

drape his glutes as if custom cut and ripple

in the wind like a red flag  piped

with the white of unconditional surrender

flying over his hairy tan legs. A T-shirt

scrunched up like a towel hangs at his waist,

his naked torso mostly smooth, his nipples

small and firm and needing licking; he’s lean

but not skinny, with the kind of physique

bestowed by nature rather than the gym,

the smooth curve from waist to shoulders like

an open highway I would love to drive.

He’s not parading himself but watching the floats

in a Pride parade, and when he raises

a hand to shield his eyes from the sun,

he exposes a furry armpit I’d like to smell and taste

before tonguing my way down from his sternum

all the way into those shorts to see

what gift could be unwrapped for me to suck on.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

The Boy in the Floral Skirt

The boy in the floral skirt,

sneakered, blond, with eyes made up,

walking around without a shirt,

Zeus would have chosen to bear his cup.


Hardly past needing a babysitter,

shoulders adorned with sparkling glitter,

he or she, they or whatever,

young and cute and far too clever.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper


Twenty-five years of celebrating Pride:

In Pensacola, rainbow kites on the beach,

the white-trunked young man whose name I missed,

but whose image the sun burned into my brain.

Joy, but then the deal with nails and tires;

for every up an equal and opposite down.


OKC with Boys One and Two:

the one who would drop me quickly and rightly,

the other, for whom “it’s complicated” would be

the understatement of two centuries.

But there were drinks and drugs and kisses and hugs,

awkward talks, weird sex, and messy break-ups.


Then in Tulsa, Brookside and Cherry Street,

Mohawk and Veterans Parks, dancing in clubs,

but also protesters and shouted offensive remarks;

now East Village, where the party’s taken hold.

Once there were hordes of pickets along the route,

whereas today one sad man held a sign.


I’ve gone alone, with a partner, and in groups,

had good times and some that weren’t so gr

and I’m not the nostalgic type, but still I miss

past faces that I no longer see–

grown old, moved away, or just lost interest;

a few have died, but most are just too busy.


But anyway it’s mostly for the kids,

and it’s good to see them parade their colours

more openly than we would ever have dared.

So politics is shit and hate still rumbles,

but the rainbow flags are flying high,

and A and B are not your only choices.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper