Monday, September 30, 2019
flavor
oh yes, it is indeed possible that Zac Efron is the
sexiest most handsome young man on the planet.
yes, it is indeed possible that every young gay boy,
that every gay teenage boy,
that every gay young man, that every gay 30-something
man, that every gay middle-age man, and
that every gay old man
on the planet
who has ever seen even one photograph of Zac Efron or
who has seen Zac Efron act in even one movie
entertains the thought of gently licking
Zac Efron's balls.
and yes,
it is indeed possible that ANYbody on the planet
with any sense knows that
Zac Efron, yes, KNOWS
that Zac Efron is almost excruciatingly attractive,
knows
that Zac Efron is handsome beyond almost
all standard measures of handsomeness,
knows that Zac Efron is
sexy way beyond almost all measures of sexiness.
gay males, straight females, and no doubt
bi males and bi females, too, think
about Zac Efron in terms that are sexual.
some straight males, too, yes males
who know that they are heterosexual, perhaps
nonetheless find themselves thinking
about Zac Efron in terms that are
frankly, sexual. in fact, some heterosexual
males are no doubt disturbed to wake
up in the middle of the night
fresh from a dream involving an imagined Zac Efron
movie and a Zac Efron scene
is which there is full frontal nudity of
a Zac Efron kind.
Most disturbing of all, to these kind
of men, is that whenever they spell
his name, they always spell it
right.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #86, Spring 2009. It also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018.)
oh yes, it is indeed possible that Zac Efron is the
sexiest most handsome young man on the planet.
yes, it is indeed possible that every young gay boy,
that every gay teenage boy,
that every gay young man, that every gay 30-something
man, that every gay middle-age man, and
that every gay old man
on the planet
who has ever seen even one photograph of Zac Efron or
who has seen Zac Efron act in even one movie
entertains the thought of gently licking
Zac Efron's balls.
and yes,
it is indeed possible that ANYbody on the planet
with any sense knows that
Zac Efron, yes, KNOWS
that Zac Efron is almost excruciatingly attractive,
knows
that Zac Efron is handsome beyond almost
all standard measures of handsomeness,
knows that Zac Efron is
sexy way beyond almost all measures of sexiness.
gay males, straight females, and no doubt
bi males and bi females, too, think
about Zac Efron in terms that are sexual.
some straight males, too, yes males
who know that they are heterosexual, perhaps
nonetheless find themselves thinking
about Zac Efron in terms that are
frankly, sexual. in fact, some heterosexual
males are no doubt disturbed to wake
up in the middle of the night
fresh from a dream involving an imagined Zac Efron
movie and a Zac Efron scene
is which there is full frontal nudity of
a Zac Efron kind.
Most disturbing of all, to these kind
of men, is that whenever they spell
his name, they always spell it
right.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #86, Spring 2009. It also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018.)
Sunday, September 29, 2019
slurp
the real question
is not why people who are really really unhappy
kill themselves
but why do people who are really really unhappy
keep on living?
i think the answer is complicated and certainly involves
the fear of death but
i think primarily what keeps them
going is hope/belief/optimism that
something good is going to happen.
and that they'll feel better.
the expectation that they won't feel this bad forever.
so they give it another day, and if that's not
enough, they give it
another.
and then yet another. and,
every once in a while, for
most people anyway,
something nice does happen,
a spring day that welcomes you into its
arms instead of excluding you,
great sex (together or alone),
a conversation you thought you'd never have you
do have, and you end up feeling tingly and good
and alive for several days thereafter,
an unexpected sum of money comes into your life,
an old medical problem clears up,
you see a great movie,
you cry for the first time in ages,
you realize you feel sort of even-keel instead
of really awful,
you wake up & feel older & you're glad because
you sure hated the way you felt when you were
younger,
you sit alone staring into blank space & you feel calm,
and without even really thinking about it
in any definite terms at all,
you just settle into the habit
of putting up with the crap and
sucking on the good stuff.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in Nerve Cowboy, Issue #18, Fall 2004. It also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018.)
the real question
is not why people who are really really unhappy
kill themselves
but why do people who are really really unhappy
keep on living?
i think the answer is complicated and certainly involves
the fear of death but
i think primarily what keeps them
going is hope/belief/optimism that
something good is going to happen.
and that they'll feel better.
the expectation that they won't feel this bad forever.
so they give it another day, and if that's not
enough, they give it
another.
and then yet another. and,
every once in a while, for
most people anyway,
something nice does happen,
a spring day that welcomes you into its
arms instead of excluding you,
great sex (together or alone),
a conversation you thought you'd never have you
do have, and you end up feeling tingly and good
and alive for several days thereafter,
an unexpected sum of money comes into your life,
an old medical problem clears up,
you see a great movie,
you cry for the first time in ages,
you realize you feel sort of even-keel instead
of really awful,
you wake up & feel older & you're glad because
you sure hated the way you felt when you were
younger,
you sit alone staring into blank space & you feel calm,
and without even really thinking about it
in any definite terms at all,
you just settle into the habit
of putting up with the crap and
sucking on the good stuff.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in Nerve Cowboy, Issue #18, Fall 2004. It also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018.)
a modest feast
the sexy broad-shouldered young man felt the smell of the
freshly cooked trout in his big smooth penis.
the sexy broad-shouldered young man felt the
smell of the salad dressing and the fresh tomatoes
in his big smooth penis.
the sexy broad-shouldered young man felt the smell
of the baked potato and sour cream and butter
in his big smooth penis.
the sexy broad-shouldered young man felt the smell
of the gently boiled peas and salt and pepper
and light glaze of margarine
in his big smooth penis.
he sat down at the table with a raging hardon
and ate and ate and ate, joyfully,
his penis happy, hard, and throbbing,
there beneath the rustic
wooden table, the table cloth
crisp and white and freshly
ironed, lightly scented
with just the sexiest hint of
starch.
--Carl Miller Daniels
the sexy broad-shouldered young man felt the smell of the
freshly cooked trout in his big smooth penis.
the sexy broad-shouldered young man felt the
smell of the salad dressing and the fresh tomatoes
in his big smooth penis.
the sexy broad-shouldered young man felt the smell
of the baked potato and sour cream and butter
in his big smooth penis.
the sexy broad-shouldered young man felt the smell
of the gently boiled peas and salt and pepper
and light glaze of margarine
in his big smooth penis.
he sat down at the table with a raging hardon
and ate and ate and ate, joyfully,
his penis happy, hard, and throbbing,
there beneath the rustic
wooden table, the table cloth
crisp and white and freshly
ironed, lightly scented
with just the sexiest hint of
starch.
--Carl Miller Daniels
Saturday, September 28, 2019
before their first phone call
the lean lithe athletic boy
imagined that he were being asked
the following question:
"what is the greatest discovery that
you ever made?"
well.
if he were asked this question
by someone he trusted enough
to answer honestly,
the lean lithe athletic boy would
have to say that the greatest discovery
he, personally, had ever made was
that when his dick got hard, and
he rubbed it and stroked it and
played with it, it would soon squirt out
big wet sloppy gobs of cum, and
when that cum was spurting out,
the sensation of pure hot sexual
pleasure that radiated from his
dick and his balls and his asshole
and all over his body was beyond
wonderful, beyond incredible,
was easily the best feeling
he'd ever felt in his entire life.
the lean lithe athletic boy
would honestly say that
learning how to masturbate
was the best discovery he
had ever made. and he had
learned it all by himself. he wondered
how many other boys learned
how to do it all by themselves.
it made him a little sad sometimes,
standing there lean lithe athletic
and naked in front of the big
mirror on the back of his
bedroom door, watching himself
stroke his great big long smooth
dick with his long smooth
capable fingers--wondering
about how other boys learned
how to do this. he thought about
those other boys, a lot,
one of them in particular,
the best-looking one,
the one who sat behind
him in trigonometry class.
that boy was named mack.
mack was tall and dark
and handsome and ran track.
once, when the lean lithe
athletic boy was standing
there naked all alone in
his own bedroom watching
himself masturbate in
front of the mirror on
the back of his bedroom door,
he thought it would be
wonderful if mack were standing
there naked beside him, jerking
off, too, and mack would be telling
the lean lithe athletic boy
how HE learned to masturbate.
when the lean lithe athletic boy
heard the imaginary sound
of mack's deep, masculine,
precise, relaxed, and articulate
voice inside his head in
his own empty bedroom,
the lean lithe
athletic boy spurted cum right away,
a lot of it, and then he went
kind of weak in the knees,
as if he were hungry for
the sound of mack's voice,
hungry for the image of
mack, naked, there beside
him, in his own quiet
empty bedroom.
and, when the lean lithe
athletic boy cleaned up
and got dressed, and sat
there at his desk working
on trigonometry, the lean
lithe athletic boy
kept on thinking about
mack, and wondered what
mack was thinking about,
and he hoped it was
something to do
with him. in fact,
what the lean lithe atletic boy
REALLY hoped was
that mack were thinking
about him, and thinking about
asking him this question:
"what is the greatest discovery that
you ever made?"
if mack asked him this question,
the lean lithe athletic boy
was 99% sure he would give
mack an honest, thorough,
and extremely descriptive
answer. no. make that 99.9% sure.
no. make that 100% sure.
yeah. 100%. is how one
learned how to masturbate
the sort of thing
one could talk about
in a phone call?
the lean lithe athletic
boy wondered about things
like this as he stared at
his trigonometry book
and wrote down numbers
and symbols on notebook
paper at his big old
paper-covered desk.
a breeze wafted in
through the open window,
and there was a small
tan phone near
the tips of the moving
curtains.
--Carl Miller Daniels (2005)
the lean lithe athletic boy
imagined that he were being asked
the following question:
"what is the greatest discovery that
you ever made?"
well.
if he were asked this question
by someone he trusted enough
to answer honestly,
the lean lithe athletic boy would
have to say that the greatest discovery
he, personally, had ever made was
that when his dick got hard, and
he rubbed it and stroked it and
played with it, it would soon squirt out
big wet sloppy gobs of cum, and
when that cum was spurting out,
the sensation of pure hot sexual
pleasure that radiated from his
dick and his balls and his asshole
and all over his body was beyond
wonderful, beyond incredible,
was easily the best feeling
he'd ever felt in his entire life.
the lean lithe athletic boy
would honestly say that
learning how to masturbate
was the best discovery he
had ever made. and he had
learned it all by himself. he wondered
how many other boys learned
how to do it all by themselves.
it made him a little sad sometimes,
standing there lean lithe athletic
and naked in front of the big
mirror on the back of his
bedroom door, watching himself
stroke his great big long smooth
dick with his long smooth
capable fingers--wondering
about how other boys learned
how to do this. he thought about
those other boys, a lot,
one of them in particular,
the best-looking one,
the one who sat behind
him in trigonometry class.
that boy was named mack.
mack was tall and dark
and handsome and ran track.
once, when the lean lithe
athletic boy was standing
there naked all alone in
his own bedroom watching
himself masturbate in
front of the mirror on
the back of his bedroom door,
he thought it would be
wonderful if mack were standing
there naked beside him, jerking
off, too, and mack would be telling
the lean lithe athletic boy
how HE learned to masturbate.
when the lean lithe athletic boy
heard the imaginary sound
of mack's deep, masculine,
precise, relaxed, and articulate
voice inside his head in
his own empty bedroom,
the lean lithe
athletic boy spurted cum right away,
a lot of it, and then he went
kind of weak in the knees,
as if he were hungry for
the sound of mack's voice,
hungry for the image of
mack, naked, there beside
him, in his own quiet
empty bedroom.
and, when the lean lithe
athletic boy cleaned up
and got dressed, and sat
there at his desk working
on trigonometry, the lean
lithe athletic boy
kept on thinking about
mack, and wondered what
mack was thinking about,
and he hoped it was
something to do
with him. in fact,
what the lean lithe atletic boy
REALLY hoped was
that mack were thinking
about him, and thinking about
asking him this question:
"what is the greatest discovery that
you ever made?"
if mack asked him this question,
the lean lithe athletic boy
was 99% sure he would give
mack an honest, thorough,
and extremely descriptive
answer. no. make that 99.9% sure.
no. make that 100% sure.
yeah. 100%. is how one
learned how to masturbate
the sort of thing
one could talk about
in a phone call?
the lean lithe athletic
boy wondered about things
like this as he stared at
his trigonometry book
and wrote down numbers
and symbols on notebook
paper at his big old
paper-covered desk.
a breeze wafted in
through the open window,
and there was a small
tan phone near
the tips of the moving
curtains.
--Carl Miller Daniels (2005)
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