PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

He was conceived in Kyoto,

and born in Seoul---because

his father was employed at the 

consulate.  In those venues, he

grew into his considerable beauty;

and, despite societal expectations,

knew that he needed to love and be loved

according to the nature God had given him.

Exchange student during our sophomore

collegiate year, he refused to be daunted by

that first Friday's blast of winter blizzard.

After last class, he returned to our room:

clad in a parka, flannel shirt and bib overalls,

thick woold socks and hearty hiking boots.  Parka,

socks, and boots came off at once.  His slender bare

feet began to draw my thoughts to themselves---the

surface of those soles, his ten morsel toes, as my

own inhibitions, once as obstructive as ice now

merely melted into the steam of homoromantic desire.

We ordered delivery pizza, and consumed it like

boys anticipating their first unsupervised sleepover.

Moonrise filled our eleventh floor window with fullness, the

lunar surface seemed so near, and the light reflected so

well, that the landmarks there seemed easily visible to the

naked eye.  Both of us were, by them, delightedly and

contentedly naked---beneath a sheet, two blankets, and two

massive quilts.  As he snuggled his backside against me and

began to suck on my fingertips, I realized he had put

semi-sheer socks on---delicately fragrant and flavorful,

delicately soft and flawlessly sensual,

vivified by his unclad natural beauty---

not the least his pulsing engorgement, so close to the

sevenfold surges that should release his glistening

sweetness to me.

J-Called