PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

[after Constantine Cavafy's magnificently triumphant

poem, "Two Young Men, 23 To 24 Years Old," in all

English translations]

Shoes and shirts were not particularly welcome at the

disco known as ChoicestSky:  in fact, they were

actually actively discouraged in that venue which was

membership exclusive; all members taking a solemn oath

not to disclose its location (not where you might guess);

locally, prudes, haters and bullies have never been

aware of it, and dismiss knowledge of it as either a

legend, a hoax, or an exaggeration.  Last might, which

was seventies night (which I always attend being a

lover of the music of that era), a young man newly

admitted to membership entered.  Shoeless and shirtless,

he wore only a pair of cut off denim shorts, and

small-mesh stockings---the mesh opaquely closed

around his toes and heels.  His long ginger-colored

hair hung well below his shoulders and his nipples, and

his pits also displayed a profusion of it.  I found

myself wondering about the third location (my thoughts

stoop to no imposed inhibitions or societal

expectations).  I noticed, a little later, that his

legs were clean-shaven, I presume, as not a hair

appeared on them.  I could not have imagined why

such a beautiful person had come here unaccompanied.

After watching him dance to some of the finest

music of the seventies, I approached him on the dance

floor, fully expecting to be rejected---given both my

age and appearance.  Surprisingly, to both myself and to

certain others I knew there, he seemed pleased that I

had joined him.  I had thought to dance only one

selection with him---it was Peter Frampton's "Baby,

I Love Your Way," but when, at its conclusion, I

turned back toward my table, he put his hand on my

arm and asked me to continue dancing.  At any other

time I might have doubted my stamina, but I believe my

desire---he was so beautiful!---kept me going and we

danced together exclusively until the closing hour of

two in the morning.  I did not want to part from him, and

he seemed not to want to part from me; so I invited

him to my apartment.  There, we enjoyed some iced tea

I had brewed early in the day.  Then, silently but

never taking his eyes from mine, he removed the

cutoffs---keeping his garter belt and stockings on; then,

he took my hand and we went into the bedroom.  There,

feeling the supreme urges toward intimacy, we offered 

each other the pleasures of Homosexual Love.

J-Called