Poetry, Summer 2001

by Shane Allison

Leather Boys

Leather boys scare me.
Just thinking about them makes my ass bleed.
My clothes are suddenly drenched
with sweat as if Iíve been chained
up in some back room Iíve never
been in before.
When I think of them walking
down the street in their leather jackets
of darkness, asses of steel
protruding from glossy chaps
that shine so elegantly in the big
city moonlight, I know theyíre
after me.
My face is plastered above every leather
bar urinal in the U.S.
Flyers pushed in faces asking,
ďHave you seen this bitch? He likes to get fist-fucked.Ē

But thatís just a lie some ex-boyfriend
spread around when he thought I stole his Air Jordans.
Iím actually a soft wussy boy
with a low tolerance for pain.

Iím hiding out at a friendís house
until daylight when the leather
boys go back to their regularly
scheduled lives as husbands to wives,
fathers to sweet sixteen daughters
and presidents of Fortune 500 companies.


Hot Cuban Stud

for Virgil

I admit the first time I saw you
I wanted to give you head.
I had heard of you
through friends and those
who loved you for
the novels and your 100 watt
I wanted you the most
as I sat there listening
to poetry about the Sunday
of red and green lights.
When you spoke of hemorrhoids
I developed a hard-on
great enough to break
the windows of glass houses.
When you spoke about
stretch marks, I nearly shot
my load, like a girl having
her period for the first time.
But unfortunately you have a wife
and kids and I canít share this
poem with you. I admit it was
me who stole your picture from
the door of your office
and if I was at your house,
Iíd bathe naked in a tub of tube socks.
Iíd put your underwear on my head
in order to feel a little bit closer
to you.
I would twirl like a ballerina
into your bathroom holding up
cans of shaving cream
your hands have held.
Iíd eat your porridge
and sleep in the bed
you jack off in
when your wifeís asleep
on the sofa after a bad fight.
I admit I wanted to fuck you
when I realized how pink your
nipples must be beneath the T-shirt
I so long to be.
It was me that ripped off the book review article
of You Come Singing.
and Iím using it
as a cum towel each and every time
I fantasize of you slaving naked over a hot stove
cooking me fried chicken.
I love the way sweat swerves down your back
into the Chicano crack of your ass.
Iíd like to see how your legs would look
hiked above my shoulders.
If I gave you head would you know it was me?
If I hid under your desk and Spanish calendar
and helped myself to your ass, eating
all I could eat, would you make a fuss
that it was another manís face?
ícause I donít think many wives are into eating
their husbandís  ass.

He Said He Wanted to Get Naked with Me

He pulls me like a gun, point blank to his lips.
His mustache is a cactus pricking skin.

He gropes my nipples.
ďShow me those titties,Ē he whispers.

He strokes me in the restroom mirror.
His ass angles over assuming the position.

A peeking red rectum gives me the eye
and I grimace in disgust.

He crouches to my crotch.
Saliva trickles to the base of sensitive skin,

Just when Iím about to explode like a Texas oil rig,
he zips up, washes hands and never looks back.

I thought he wanted to get naked with me.


© 2001 Shane Allison

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