Fashionisti Fucking

It’s always very stylish, of course,

preceded by hair and makeup,

manscaping and pedicures,

the soundtrack from a Paris runway,

expensive designer garments artfully shed,

the Hermes scarf maybe left on,

the pleasure definitely faked,

the mess cleaned up immediately.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

Advertisements

Cover Boy

The boy could be an angel or a porn star:

close-cropped hair and clean-shaven face;

shirtless, his chest muscled, smooth, and lean;

eyes that say, “I might have done or not,

but with you, I’m definitely going to.”

His mouth open just enough to kiss,

he’s the personification of seduction.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

Thor Makes Coffee in Vesterbrø

VesterbroJoeandJuice

The barista wasn’t actually called Thor,

though he certainly might have been,

fair but strong Nordic features and

long platinum hair pulled back from

his face, grasping the espresso-machine

handle as if it were the fabled hammer–

godlike in his strength and beauty,

the mythic illusion marred only

by the incongruous sweatshirt

from an American university,

where he’s probably the star

of the rowing team or something.

And the cappuccino was good as well.

 

Copyright 2017

T. Allen Culpepper

Nine

His order number’s nine,

and, damn, he’s looking fine:

black jeans, boots, white shirt

jyst tight enough for his pert

nipples to be outlined.

Black hair that’s stylishly cut,

short beard, slim build, tight butt.

Eyes glued to his computer,

but if I did my duty,

I could break that rut.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

This Dude

this dude

So this dude walks into a coffee bar–

no, literarily, this dude walks in–

and looks around intently

with brown eyes that look

like portals to other worlds

before taking a seat,

putting down his backpack,

and, well, just sitting,

not ordering food or drink,

not dragging a laptop

out of the bag, not listening

to music, not playing with

a phone–doesn’t even

have one out–not talking

to anyone, just sitting.

And I’d like to know

what he’s thinking,

but have no idea how

to start that kind

of conversation with

a total  stranger who appears

disinclined toward chat,

and then he leaves,

just like that–not quickly,

not slowly–just stands,

hoists his pack to his shoulder,

and walks back out

onto the street,

and I wonder if

he was really ever here.

Copyright 2015

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