how platonic

the resulting correspondence spurred him into action.
oh there was no doubt about it: he was in love
with his new pen-pal. and he was sure his new
pen-pal was just as hot and as sexy a young man
as he himself was. he could picture himself
and his pen-pal together, lying naked
in the woods, side by side, while
in fact he lay all alone by himself
naked on a towel on his belly in a secluded
spot in the woods and wrote page
after page after page after page
to his new pen-pal.  this was the
real thing, though, this time.
the real thing. oh sure his pen-pal
was a small-press editor, who lived thousands
of miles away, and who had accepted
and published several of his poems,
but, well, it went
W-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-Y-Y-Y beyond
a mere poet-editor relationship. he knew it.
his pen-pal wrote him even when there
were matters totally unrelated to
his poems and to the magazine.
his pen-pal wrote him about
life and milkshakes and chocolate
cookies and the joy of a simple
walk on the beach with the
wind blowing his tousled blond hair
to and fro.
oh yes, he was passionately in love
with his new pen-pal, and often
as he lay there naked on his belly writing
letters to his pen-pal, he would
get an insatiable and tremendous hardon, and
he just lay there, though, on top of it,
feeling the sensation of it against
his taut flat belly, as he wrote
to his pen-pal about matters totally
unrelated to sex. he was fairly
sure his new pen-pal was straight.
which could be a problem. since he
himself was gay and in fact totally
in love with his new pen-pal. but
surely this could all be worked out.
everything didn't have to be about
sex, did it? some things were just
about love. and so he lay there
on his belly his back sweaty
his pink little nipples dripping
sweat his hardon raging, and
he wrote to his pen-pal about
the movie he'd just seen,
the book he was in the middle
of reading, and then,
he kinda broke into tears,
and quickly moved the pages
away, because it was
unseemly to have tear-stains on
letters, no matter what
others may do--that was
just not him. no way.
he was much too smooth
and sophisticated for
something like that.
instead, after he finished
his cry, he added the sentence:
"I'm still in the middle
of the woods and feel a poem
coming on--I'll send it to ya
if I like the way it turns out."
then he wrote "Sincerely yours,"
and put the letter into an
envelope and sealed it up
and he lay there naked
sweaty on his belly
on top of his hardon
and even though it
seemed kind of crass
to bring sex into all
of this, he rubbed
himself against the
soft surface of the
towel until he spurted
cum and, in fact, he
spurted so much cum
that he nearly soaked his
towel, and then he stood
up, looked down, disgusted,
disgruntled, and just thoroughly
thoroughly
vexed.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #90, Spring 2010. It also appears in my book String Bean.)