ROUGH TRADE

I would be a liar if I pretended I still
don't think they are the hottest
thing ever in bed. Even if most
of my fantasies are based on badly
made porn: drunken sailors and
soldiers, playing with their meat
in front of a gay man's camera.
Just for a few laughs (and a few bucks).
I wonder how many of them regret it in
the morning? Or do they just brag to
their buddies about how they scammed
some stupid faggot out of a thousand
bucks? And all they had to do was
stroke their meat, while the queer took
a few pics. And they got all the beer and
whiskey they wanted, and even a
sandwich or two for good measure?

I once shared a 2 bedroom apartment
with a very hot straight guy. He knew
I was gay. Yet seemed to love to be
around me when he was fresh out of the
shower. Towelling himself off, as I stood
there and watched. He loved to tease
and torture me with all his butch beauty.
Once, he grabbed me by the shoulders,
and pushed my face down to his sweet
smelling crotch. "So what are you waitin'
for dude? Just go for it."

I was about to cup his balls in my
hand, and give him the blow job
of his dreams (and my own), when
he suddenly pushed me back, and
laughed in my face. "Dude, you know
I ain't no queer." I found a studio
apartment a week later, and heard
he had joined the army.

Now whenever they
show those sad photographs on
TV of soldiers that have died in
the war, I pay extra close attention.
And hope I'll never see his cocky
face. Every now and then, I'll take
a long shower, and use Irish Spring
soap. And remember his sexy smell,
as I imagine what it would have been
like, if he'd only kept his big hands on
my trembling shoulders. And let me
do what he secretly wanted me to do.
Instead of treating me like a joke.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell