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


God of Style

You wouldn’t have heard the story

because Odin would have disapproved,

Baldr died too soon afterward, and Freyr

was never one to leak secrets to strangers,

but when Freyr was sowing his oats,

before he settled down and married,

he had been struck by the beauty,

incomparable really, of Baldr

in the prime of his youth, and Baldr

on his part, being fresh, eager, and needy,

had found himself drawn to Freyr’s

impressively enormous equipment,

which he offered to polish

and then take inside.


So they hooked up and got busy,

comingling their divinity until they

erupted into an orgasm like—

well, there’s really no adequate

simile for the fusion of gods.

Since it happened in Asgard,

where the laws of human biology

didn’t apply and the miraculous

was merely routine, their union,

though short-lived, produced

a child, a son whom they called

Tofar and sent for safety’s sake

to live with Freyr’s compatriots,

the Vanir.


In later years, when both Baldr and his

accidental assassin, Hodr, were long dead,

and Freyr was well established in his fertile

heterosexual marriage to Gerdr,

rumours of Baldr’s resurrection

circulated widely, but Freyr knew

the truth, that the reappeared one

was not Baldr as supposed, but

Tofar, who had grown into

the image of his other father.


And whereas the same-sex thing

had been little more than a bit of

experimental pleasure for the fathers,

the son was gay for real, with a husband,

a golden ring, and nothing in the closet

but a fabulous wardrobe.


Copyright 2017

T. Allen Culpepper

Jason & Medea

I seldom post work other than poetry on this site, but I thought some of my readers might enjoy my short one-acting reworking of Euripides’ Medea, with a gay Jason–and it actually is in blank verse, so it’s kind of poetry.


A 21st-century reimagining of The Medea of Euripides, in one act 

Medea enters, obviously agitated. She wears nice clothes but appears somewhat disheveled. She carries an open liquor bottle, and though she is not yet drunk, she has taken a slug or two from it. She directs her opening speech to the audience.

 Medea. You know it’s true, we women have it rough.

To get on in the world we need a man,

and a decent husband’s hard to find.

A woman has to shop with one for care,

looking hard and sparing no expense,

and yet, having found, hooked up, and mated

with the best of what’s available,

catered to his whims and mothered his children,

she is yet not safe from twists of fate;

bored, he might turn to her sisters,

or else turn gay and run off with a man,

deserting her as my Jason has—

after everything I’ve done for him—

and in revenge for that I must make

his life a living hell far worse than death;

he deserves it, the cheating faggot slut!

Creon enters, appearing concerned, perhaps a bit frightened, but with an air of firm resolve maintained, but with difficulty.

Creon. Medea, I’m afraid of your rage.

I mean you no offense but must insist

that you quit my kingdom this very day.

A vengeful bitch can do great harm when left

to her own devices, her fury unchecked.

Medea. What you ask is cruel and unfair,

though to avoid trouble I will comply,

but for the children’s sake I ask one favour,

that you’ll give me a day to pack and plan.

Creon. Going along with your wishes would be stupid,

but I will risk it to prove my good intent.

Exit Creon.

Medea. Damn these fuckers, I could kill them all!

I’ll start by poisoning Jason’s boy-toy, Glaucus,

and his father-king, this pompous Creon.

Enter Jason, maddeningly cheerful, apparently oblivious to his mistreatment of Medea, somewhat full of himself.

Jason. I’ve heard you’re banished and I’m really sorry.

I think you hate me, but I still care for you

and will do what I can for you and the kids.

Medea. That’s a lie, you cock-sucking bastard,

and you’re a cheating pussy, not a man.

You know I saved your fucking life, goddammit,

and destroyed my family to stay with you.

And what do you give me in return? You run

out on me, and not even for a woman

but for that faggot fairy-princess Glaucus!

Faithless husband, you’re not worth a shit.

Jason. The way I see it is that the goddess saved me.

Still it’s true that you did render aid,

though in return I have rescued you

from your barbarian roots and brought you here

to Greece, the most cultured land on earth.

Though I can’t say I’ve ever truly loved you,

I care about you and appreciate

the role you’ve played as mother to my children.

What you need to see is that my marriage

to Prince Glaucus will be good not only

for me, but also for you and our kids.

Right now we don’t have resources

to support ourselves and raise the children,

but with the wealth I acquire by means

of advantageous marriage to a prince,

I can provide for you and for our sons,

maintaining you in the style befitting a woman

who grew up as the daughter of a king.

You seem jealous because I am attracted

to Glaucus, but there’s more to life than sex,

and anyway, it’s not like you and I

are exactly burning up the sheets.

Medea. Get out, you bastard, I curse you all!

Exit Jason, enter Aegeus (from opposite directions)

Aegeus. (with traditional cheek kisses) Ciao, Medea, it’s good to see you again!

Medea. Ciao, Creon, what brings you to Corinth?

Aegeus. I’ve just been to the oracle to ask

what it will take for me to have some children;

so far, my queen has not borne even one.

And how have things been going with you, old friend?

Medea. Not well. My pathetic excuse for a husband

has abandoned me for a rich prince.

Now I haven’t anywhere to go,

So, Aegeus, please, will you let me go

back home with you so I can live in Athens?

I know what drugs to use to ensure

that you can have the children that you want

with the aid of my love and magic.

Aegeus. That sounds to me like a good, fair deal.

The catch is that I can’t get you out

of Corinth, but if you make it to Athens,

then I will welcome you and we’ll make babies.

Exit Creon.

Medea. All this planning’s been really tiresome,

but now it’s time to get down to business—

to take my revenge on Jason and his crew.

I’ll poison a wedding suit and hat and send

them by the kids as gifts for Glaucus,

as if I’m trying to be conciliatory,

but they’ll be steeped in a vat of lethal poison,

so that when the boy-bride puts them on,

he will convulse and die a painful death,

and Creon, coming to his dear son’s aid,

will touch him, absorb the poison, and also die.

For now, I’ll let Jason live, so I can

watch him suffer insufferable grief.

Enter Jason and Medea’s two boys, aged 12 and 14 or thereabouts. They look like they’ve been wrestling in the grass.

Medea. Boys, what exactly have you been doing?

Boys (in unison). Each other, Mum; we are gay like Dad.

Medea (to audience, in the falsely calm tone of shock). Bloody hell, a goddamn queer conspiracy.

Medea (to boys, suddenly raging). If you are gay, then you are fucking dead!

Pulling an impossibly large kitchen knife from the folds of her dress, she kills them both—like a professional, with one perfectly aimed wound to each.

Jason runs in just as she drops the knife and it clanks on the floor.

 Jason. What have you done, you crazy murderous bitch?

Medea. I’ve shown you what happens when you fuck with me.

They’re all dead—your queer lover and his dad,

and now your precious kids, both fags like you.

I thought about putting an end to you as well,

but I decided to let you live and suffer,

all alone, just like you left me.

(While she is speaking, a Centaur enters).

You’ll be stuck in Corinth mourning and licking your wounds,

but I’ll be riding the hell out of Corinth

on the back of this centaur my granddad sent;

as half a man he’s still twice the man

you are, and hung like a horse, I hear.

Jason falls to his knees in grief as the unrepentant Medea rides off on the Centaur.

 The Nurse (male) enters and rushes to comfort Jason.

Nurse. Jason, I know you must be suffering terribly,

having lost your lover and your sons

to a vengeful psychopathic bitch,

but I’ll be here to comfort you and help

you heal, and besides my medical training…

(whispers something in Jason’s ear).

Jason (perking up a bit in curiosity). It’s actually eleven, are you serious?

Nurse. I could never lie at a time like this.

Jason (ambiguously). Well, fuck me, mate.



Copyright 2016

T. Allen Culpepper

Scenes from the Thirteenth Night

Scenes from the Thirteenth Night


“Oh, Seb, I thought we’d never be together,”

Antonio whines as they lie in bed entwined,

his dark curls resting on Sebastian’s chest.

And Sebastian strokes that hair and responds,

“I told you, Tony, ‘Livia was just a practical move;

it’s you I’ve always loved, from that first time at sea.”


“’Cesario,’ Olivia says to Viola,” that’s what

I’ll always call you, Love, ‘cause even though

your secret maidenhead’s what I wanted to claim,

I still like you looking all butched up in your boots.

“Call me what you like,” Vi replies, “as long

as I can get you out of that silk gown

and fifty layers of undergarments.”


“Feste, sweet Feste, I’m such a fool for you,”

Orsino admits, “and I love it when you come

round here to fool around with me.”

“But, Orsie, there’s no greater foolishness

than fooling with a fool,” jokes Feste,

“though I concede I want to take advantage

of your folly—and take your ducal scepter.”


“Malvolio, you’re so uptight,” Andrew says;

“what you need’s to relax and have a little fun.”

“But Andy, how’m I supposed to loosen up

when I’ve just been bashed by obnoxious

Toby and that wicked wench Maria?

What I need’s to get my revenge on those assholes!”

“The past is past, Mal, just let them go

and pound my eager ass instead.”

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

Word Porn: Haiku Erotica [Advisory: Sexually explicit]

Advisory: This one is sexually explicit. Please don’t read it if that is inappropriate for you.


Like feral gazelles,

the slender youths conjoining

for the sport of it.


Mohawked Sebastian’s

tongue approaching Nigel’s lips,

open to receive.


Open at both ends,

he hungrily takes their cocks,

one sucked, one fucking.


Foot up on the chair,

displaying stretched cock and balls

between his spread legs.


Bound up in the sling,

slave takes his master’s lashes,

saying, “Thank you, sir!!”

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

Theological Speculation

So what if God created Adam a top

and saw that he needed somewhere to put it

and then created Steve a bottom,

but then Steve turned out to be a slut

and took on every snake in the garden,

so God decided all that breeding

ought to produce some result,

so he whacked of off Steve’s S and T

and made him pregnant Eve?

Or maybe there’s a misprint

and God created Ada first

and noticed she kept looking

at herself in the reflecting pool

and put one and one together

and that’s how Ada and Eve

came together, and the snake

was just a sex-toy metaphor.

Because, I mean, who ever

really knows what God is up to?

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper