Date: Fri, 21 Jul 2006 15:11:16 -0500
From: Herb Cat <herb_cat@lycos.com>
Subject: Voyeur Verse

Copyright 2006 Herb Cat. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without
the author's permission.

Please note: this posting celebrates sexual attraction between males and
depicts oral sex between males. If any of these offend you or are illegal
to publish in your jurisdiction, or you are under the age of 18, read no
further.

The characters, locations and incidents in this story are fictional. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

As an author, I welcome feedback on my writing. Please send any comments
about this story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank
you.

-----

Introduction: Very few of the postings on Nifty are written in verse. And
yet poetry enjoys a time-honored tradition in the history of erotica. After
receiving a lot of positive feedback to three of my earlier Nifty postings
("The Cowboy Song," "Seven Sonnets for a New Lover," and "Little Boy
Poems"), I decided once more to post some poems. These six poems do not
form a single sequence as in the previous posts; they were written at
different times, under different circumstances, and employ different poetic
forms. However, they share a celebration for the visual enticements of the
male body.


1. DECEPTION

I'm in the closet everywhere.  The world thinks I am straight.  I know I'm
lying. I don't care.  The benefits are great.  I walk the streets and every
guy who comes my way and passes by gets checked out by my lustful eye and
not a single one knows I committed mental rape.

I stop to watch the men get set to fix the fuckin street.  Their muscles
glistening with sweat, they labor in the heat.  One guy pours tar, all hot
and black.  He doesn't know I watch his back.  When he bends over, it's a
fact, I see his hairy sweaty crack; my heart, it skips a beat.

I hit the gym near every day to keep my body fit.  That naked men are on
display is another benefit.  The locker room is where they doff their
clothes, and show their cocks (some soft, some semi-hard), then shower off
and like a piggy at the trough, I'm so enjoying it.


2.A NEW REGULATION

Concerning young men's fashions,
 I'm not one to oft complain, but what idiot designer,
 strolling by the river Seine, thought the proper beach attire
 for a well-endowed young lad should be big and loose and baggy?
 Modern swimsuits make me mad!

When I once went to the ocean
 to enjoy a day of sun, balmy breezes, some beach-combing,
 and a little seaside fun, as college boys played volleyball
 and frisbee, I could smile for tight lycra-covered packages
 used to be the style.

One regulation I would add
 to those posted by the shore: Men under thirty have to wear
 a speedo, nothing more!


3. INADEQUATE LIPS

How can my humble lips begin to praise my handsome lover's skin, or to what
earthly fur compare his godly crown of dark, rich hair?

With what words could I ever trace the features of his lovely face: his
piercing eyes, his roman nose, his luscious lips? No choir knows the
syllables to rightly sing the adulations of my king?

His mouth, his chin, his shoulders broad no human language can afford the
tribute that all these require.  His pecs, his abs, his pubes, inspire but
I fail to find the words that could describe the wonder of his wood.

My mouth is mute as any rock.  All it can do is suck his cock.


4. A PSALM OF PRAISE

Your dangling dangle, the beckoning finger invitingly poised over
hair-covered globes -- may I be the cantor of praises, the singer kneeling
in worship, divested of robes, composing the psalm that will soothe the
king's torment, blowing the shofar to summon the choirs of sensuous
stirrings too long laying dormant; such worshipful hymns your steeple
inspires.


5. I'M DICK

I'm Dick!
 and I will not be ignored.

Bury me `neat layers of cotton Shut me behind zippers
 I will not be ignored.

Pretend I am not there when you speak to your sons about sports cars
barbecues Give them "action figures" that leave me off
 Action?

Air brush me out of the picture
 I will not be ignored.  Pixelate my moving image
 I will not be ignored.

Bowdlerize Expunge my name from the language You will devise another
pseudonym or euphemism
 for I will not be ignored.

In Papua, Japan and Ancient Greece, they celebrate me with huge phallic
poles Yet you think you can conceal me
 in silence.


6. THE MASTURBATOR'S SESTINA

Each night when I get home at six o'clock (Perhaps five thirty if I had
some luck with traffic), I slip off my jeans and jock and take in hand my
long-neglected cock which locked inside my pants all day was stuck and
start to give it a good wank. Oh fuck!

I know, you think it's best to really fuck and so you pity me at six
o'clock.  But since I live alone, I'm kind of stuck.  Without a fucking
bud, I'm outa luck and so my fist is partners with my cock and they pretend
I'm with a hunky jock.

"Come here, buddy," says this phantom jock, "and let my asshole get your
super fuck.  Nothing feels better than your giant cock inside me. I could
take it `round the clock.  >From now `til dawn, with any kinda luck Inside
my fuckin chute your dick is stuck."

"Yeah, let me hear you squeal, like you're a stuck pig!" I order my
imagined jock.  "I'm gonna rip you open. With any luck you might survive
this marathon of fuck.  And then tomorrow morning, five o'clock I'll send
you packing, ass `n balls `n cock."

But suddenly the cum shoots from my cock, and now my fingertips with jizz
are stuck together like the hands on the clock: just past six-thirty. My
imaginary jock is just my fist. Perhaps some day I'll fuck him. Hell I can
dream my lousy luck

will change. Why shouldn't I have some luck?  I let go of my tiny flaccid
cock and go into the bathroom. What the Fuck!  I wash my cock and get my
hands unstuck and halfway decent, put back on my jock.  It's now not yet
even seven o'clock.

My cock, now settled in for a fuck- less evening, back in my jock is stuck.
The clock looks down at me and sneers, "Good luck."