"We need to plow, we say"...


By John W. King


(This is supposed to be a poem, in case you didn't notice:)



We're quiet now.
The way it is,
With your new trick,
A whole new beau,
With his new prick.
This bundle of his.



Quiet.
The air unharmed.
The receptionist ---
Disarmed.
We need to plow,
We say,
(In all innocence),
She'll know.
She won't bite,
We won't bite,
The bugs won't bite.
We're sent outside,
It's only two steps,
To the annex,
With a bottle of Schweppes.
The room is small.

I say, I say,
Your prick is tall.
I knows, he say,
(As yet he may),
We're in, he says,
For the long ---
Haul.
Whats? do I say.
Yes, does he say.
I love you, say,
(So love me too).
I chuck my pants,
It's such a dance.
He grabs my dick,
For a quick lick.
(That is his shtick,
He says).
His lips are mellow,
His skin is yellow,
All I can see,
He's down on me,
For a quick spree,
Along the quay,
Of love.
And you? I say.
He's such a finger,
He wouldn't linger.
He wouldn't bend.
The end.





John W. King teaches forensics and negotiation at San Francisco State University. He writes mostly erotic, mostly gay stuff in his spare time.

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