Never or Now?

Cutting his eyes over his shoulder,

he checks whose gaze burns him from behind,

lusting after his youthful beauty, which smolders

as he raises eyebrow in an inviting sign.

Muscles ripple along his lean, smooth back,

neck arching gracefully as his head turns

and both imagine adventures in the sack,

the hot sex for which they  hotly yearn.

But will lips touch and hands fondle flesh,

each the other invite to come inside

as their bodies and souls intermesh,

or will they miss the moment, let it slide?

The moment lost, their chances to regain it diminish,

but if they seize it, they could take it to the finish.

 

Copyright 2019

T. Allen Culpepper

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It’s Not My Fault: A Drinking Song

Verse 1

It wasn’t exactly love at first sight,

but there was something, and we got on well,

co-travelers through the days and nights

until it turned sour and went to hell

for reasons that remain unclear…

 

Chorus

Oh, it’s a motherfucking shame

that our lives are such a bloody mess,

but don’t even try to cast the blame,

‘cause there are no crimes for me to confess.

 

Verse 2

No doubt the therapists would claim

that there are lessons to be learned

about when to shut up and when to say

what’s really on your mind, what hurts,

and, yeah, mental health was not our strength…

 

Chorus

Oh, it’s a motherfucking shame

that our lives are such a bloody mess,

but don’t even try to cast the blame,

‘cause there are no crimes for me to confess.

 

Bridge

I guess fucked up love is better than no fucking love at all;

it takes two to play the game, but a lucky draw for both to win.

 

Verse 3

Sure, I failed, but Lord knows I tried

to heal the wounds and make things whole,

to wipe away the tears you cried

and bring comfort to your soul,

and so it hurt when you sent me away…

 

Chorus

Oh, it’s a motherfucking shame

that our lives are such a bloody mess,

but don’t even try to cast the blame,

‘cause there are no crimes for me to confess.

 

Repeat and fade slowly and quietly into despair

 

Copyright 2019

T. Allen Culpepper

 

Septimus

After the character from Woolf

 

That one time in the trenches

when the fear and loneliness had been

too much, when the panic had come

on him, Evans had taken his hand,

pulled him close, and embraced him,

wrapping strong arms and legs

tightly around him–and then came

the kiss, erotic, yes, but more than that,

the exchange of the life-force,

an infusion of warming breath.

For Evans it had been a one-off,

a gesture of comfort extended

to a blood-brother in time of distress;

but for Septimus, though he dared not

hope for the act’s repetition,

it was the moment that defined

his life, the glorious high that,

having once been reached,

left an aching void, the hunger

of addiction that, no matter how

richly fed, could never be

satisfied again.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

 

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

 

 

 

Sleeping Together

I’d praise how  our bodies perfectly entwine,

if this were some romantic verse. It isn’t.

It’s the cruder modern kind in which

your bony elbow jabs me in the ribcage,

your razor toenails scrape my naked calves,

and your hard cock that gave me pleasure before

kind of annoys me now that I want to sleep,

but when you roll over, you take all the covers with you,

leaving me cold.

Like us, that story’s old.

In my fantasies, you’re someone who

doesn’t concuss me with flailing arms or keep

me awake some nights with raucous snores,

but in reality, that’s not even half–

the book would have at least a hundred pages.

The sex is fine, but sleeping with you’s a bitch.

Yet my love, my love, is still consistent:

I wrote you this poem, and it even rhymes.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

Wake

Drowsy from reading, I stretch out on the bed,

near, but not touching, the cat, who likes her space,

and various pasts and futures fill my head

with thoughts, some welcome, others hard to face.

 

The window, left partially open, admits the wind,

and riding it in, the melodies of birds–

song that trills above the dishwasher’s din;

the thoughts stir feelings too  difficult for words.

 

The approach of spring always creates

unstable emotions that swirl around and collide:

the wish for freedom bound up with the need to mate;

new dreams mixed in with fear that something’s died.

 

My love craves exposure, but I’m wary,

even though you’re just imaginary..

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper