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

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

Camera Man

Asian with a camera, but not

a tourist. Just slightly overweight,

but well turned out in denim top,

loose navy trousers, new red trainers.


With two girls he’s photographing,

probably for a college class,

on Sixth Street late on Sunday,

assignment doubtless due on Monday.


Procrastinator making bella figura

with laziness plus sprezzatura.


Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper

At the Vampire Weekend Concert


Tall and lean in skinny jeans

over leather desert boots,

tightly fitting printed shirt,

a blue button-up with sleeves

rolled high, brown hair styled just so.



Multicolored striped

sweater, glasses, tight black cap

pushed back on buzzed blond

head, smooth face, skinny black  jeans,

rich voice, but girlish giggle.



Angel in an unexpected venue,

blond perfection behind me for a moment,

but, like youth itself, in a flash

the apparition disappears from view.



Straw-haired kid in blazer,

like me, there on his own,

but he’s happy, singing.



Straight couple in band T-shirts;

both are short, about my height;

he’s not bad–light beard, knit cap,

small plugs in his ears, brown eyes.



Two South Asian boys:

one bubbly, knows all the words;

the other stoic.


Copyright 2013

T. Allen Culpepper