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.
T. Allen Culpepper