idealist

the smiling face of opportunity greeted him
in the mirror as he stared at the stubble that
he would shave off later in the morning,
if he was in the mood, that is.
oh it was certainly nice
being
a sexy naked big-dicked young man
staring at his own face in the mirror
in the morning, trying to decide
if he was even going to shave at all,
knowing the day
was ripe with promise,
dripping juicy like a golden peach with
yellowjackets flying all around it
just waiting to take a sharp chitinous-jawed
bite.
for now, though,
the sexy naked big-dicked young man
just looked at the stubble on the
jaws of his handsome face,
peeked at the rest of his good-looking body
examined the nice heft of his dick and balls
licked his sensuous lips
and
pictured himself
watching himself
shave that stubble off his face,
the
morning glowing like a goddamn peach,
ripe for the picking,
if there were someone there, that is,
to pick that goddamn thing.
**
soon it became late afternoon.
the sexy naked big-dicked young man
was drunk again,
lying on the floor on his back,
tugging on his big smooth dick, readying
himself for yet another good gushy
sloppy cum-spurting
orgasm, pausing in his tugging,
every now and then to touch
his face, still covered with stubble
no he'd never gotten around to
shaving, never gotten around
to much at all today, except, this
this THIS the lying naked on
his broad sexy back tugging
on his big sturdy dick,
spurting wad after wad of
hot gooey cum -- a nice way to
spend the
entire day -- why shave and
interrupt the flow, so to speak --
the
moon rising now, he could see it
through his open window
the sky the color of a fresh green
pickle
like his gramma used to make
back
when
he was just a wee little kid -- he
thought about that
pickle now, as he
tugged and tugged, and
didn't cum and didn't cum -- and
in fact he wanted to cum but
it wasn't happening this time --
and so he stood up
and went to the kitchen,
thinking about his
grandma's pickles,
thinking back to when
he was just a
kid, back to
when he
first
poked the
tip of one of those nice firm
green pickles,
oh so gently,
into his tight little asshole,
pink-lipped alleyway, the
vinegar stingy, but in
a good kind of way,
his hand
on the refrigerator
door now, his thoughts
minty green.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018. And the poem first appeared in The Commonline Journal, January 7, 2015.)