My Type On the Body of A_S_

what a body! lithe, slender & tall. young, long fingers, bit at the tips; those hands, the hands of a man who works on the inner parts of internal combustion machines, the hands of a man who has welded firm rods from separate entities into one; the face, slender, meek; sharp eyes, chiseled chin, shoulders thin; muscular arms, chest, flat, firm belly, long ample legs, smooth above the pubis; below, hairy, just right, from groin to ankles; dick long and thick; ass, beautiful divine hole – and here it is the crescendo, I find that I found in that penis, that ass, of that man, The Body of A_S_, the perfect candidate: the straight man, the aloof man, the failed man, the young man of twenty and three, just waiting for me to wait; a whole hole waiting to be whole. Waiting for me to wait. Increasing excitation with every moment of waiting. With every drive out; further out, two miles, three miles, Las Vegas, The Grand Canyon (*paging Dr Freud *paging Dr Freud) Los Angeles, flung to Denver, slept flopping on top of each other stone hard cold winter of 2015; further, Chicago, tall buildings, Boystown on a winter’s night; pushing deeper, deeper inside of you and me, talking and talking past Detroit abandoned towers, Ohio turnpike, Western Pennsylvania,

 further, and further and further to New Jersey where you said “Let me out and leave me to be with the Devil!” not till we get to Manhattan darling;

Across the sea, I left you, silent; I left you; but still wandered your body in my mind, and with time and connection, WhatsApp, Nude Photographs, Phone Sex, Coming Out, I never kissed you but we dated,  And so I waited, watching like a cat peers in hole; watching, and also, navigating the

waters of your psyche, wanting to _____

to say that I could

do it again

turn a straight man in a curve

 I did it once, I thought, and I did it twice,

but your weren’t straight; just a sculpture of a queer in straight stone, waiting to be chiseled out, or eroded slowly, by some waiting my type

my type my type my type my type my type; you talked of women, boobs, trucks, dirt bikes, chemistry and LSD and loneliness and hopelessness and Dexedrine and dead dreams and old schemes and I listed because you were my type my type my type my typing here I remember that I didn’t think much about waiting and the watching but I always had my mind

on your body.


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