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




Hesky Kluk? Check!

He wasn’t actually Czech, of course,

though he checked all of my boxes,

European possibly, or Latin American,

speaking a Romance language to his friend,

in line behind me at the grocery checkout,

buying flowers, lilies, I think, for someone

else, probably one of his lovers,

but I had already checked him out

from produce, over by the mangos,

his hair tied up, muscular T-shirted torso,

lightly-haired legs between shorts and sneakers,

probably an international student at the uni,

not Czech at all, but still a pretty boy.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

Throwback Thinker

I guess you’d call him handsome

in a Seventies kind of way,

with wavy blond hair, not

long, but trending that way;

smooth, angular-featured face;

broad, masculine shoulders

enhanced by his choice of shirt,

a bright blue baseball jersey,

worn over mid-thigh shorts,

his sturdy tanned legs

and bare feet dangling,

his Birkenstocks having

slid off to the floor.

He’s leaning forward on

one arm with furrowed brow,

intently concentrating on

his work like a contemporary

Thinker, but it’s not his thinking

that interests me the most.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

Where’s a Swimming-Hole When You Need One to Enact Your Romantic Fantasy?

Strolling through the outdoor market

accompanied by two others, a girl and a guy,

so that who’s with whom is hard to call,

he’s maybe early twenties,

totally and effortless masculine,

but with a boyish sweetness

that makes him nearly irresistible

in his plain white tee, black shorts,

and grey Converse low-tops,

with one tattoo, a peace sign,

on his right calf, one gold

hoop high on his left ear,

and a cute face with a little blondish chin fuzz

under a bright new baseball cap

that you want to snatch to mess

with his hair, and then run off with

to initiate a game of tag down to the

nearest creek for a skinny-dip—he’ll

be sweetly shy undressing but then

get into the spirit of things once he

hits the water—and then afterward

stretch out on the bank to dry and rest

and maybe split a beer or share a joint,

and lazily fool around a little bit,

though you’ll probably just get

sleepy or silly and it won’t really

go too far, but it’s all good anyway.


Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper