Late, late last night a boy shot off on my thigh.
We were two gay brothas sandwiched in between
the church on Park Avenue and The Blonde Iguana.
I couldn’t see a thing, but I could make out his
Billy-club of a cock beneath the purplish-white street lights.
Reached into his boxers like a grab bag of Cracker Jacks
and pulled out the prize I won.
Could feel its penile thump in my heavy-duty hands.
Stooping down, his cock was this close to my face.
I devoured him like I was at an All You Can Eat Hot Bar
at Western Sizzlin’.
Last night this boy who was lizard-thin, whose name
I never got,
had a dick like a gun that he shoved in my mouth.
Held him back with the hand I write poems with.
His pubes smelled like Langston’s Seafood, but I didn’t care.
He had a butt like a balloon that scraped
against the brick wall of the Lord’s house.
His orange shirt kept dropping like a curtain in my face.
“Hold your shirt up,” I told him.
Beneath the peat moss of oak trees, I gave the boy head.
“Suck that dick,” he said.
He played with my tits like they were Slinkies.
“I’m gonna cum.” His spunk tasted like colored tissue.
I never swallowed because this is not a perfect world.
But in a poem, I can drink cum like Kool-Aid.
Late last night a boy I gave head to went home a
And I have dried cum on my thigh to prove it.
Shane Allison has been called a nigger, a faggot, and a genius. His poems have appeared in Mississippi Review, New Delta Review, Oyster Boy Review, Plum Ruby Review, Coal City Review, Chiron Review, Absinthe Literary Review, and others. His chapbooks Black Fag and Cock and Balls continue to wreak havoc. He is friends with poet, Jarret Keene.