Chuck you dirty shorts one more time, John

By John W. King

(John had been asked to beta-read a chapter of Michael Ampersant's new book, which, he writes, inspired him to the following little poem:)



John,
Why couldn’t you,
At the end of a page-turning day,
Of unspeakable heat levels,
Why couldn’t you just down
the third fortification Godehart was handing you,
And chuck your dirty shorts one more time,
And let the sex slave,
Fix the Magic-Mike collar around your neck,

(In view of the advanced hour we’d keep the strip-tease to a minimum),

Shed your drawers,
To the dutiful applause,
Of the sex-starved men,
On Gohard’s lustlager.

Shed your drawers


Alex downing yet another flute,
Offered by the lady of the house,

(Half of the bubbly spilled),

Alex putting in some belly dance,
To tangoes from Godehart’s boom box,
The tune shifting gear to slithering harem-rock,
Alex taking the hint,
And taking me from behind, (clean good fun),

Dry-humping with the tipsy elegance,
Of a pubescent raptor (or cobra, or alpha-pup),
Whispering,
Are you ready to ditch me?


The music shifting gear again

The music shifting gear again,
Trevor stroking Gohard, Gohard stroking Trevor,
We’ll be left to our own devices here on the dance floor,
Save for Maurice,
Who’s clapping me off and taking his arm,
Alex's arm,
Tango again for a misleading moment,
Maurice unclad, uninhibited, unraveling,

(I skip the details),

Inches inching forward,
Harem rock resuming.


"Yeah, fuck!"

And I am standing there,
Transfixed in outer space,
Wondering needlessly,
How Alex pulls it off,
Maurice grunting,
Alex grunting needlessly,
Trevor grunting, Gohard grunting,
The sex slave grunting serving condoms, needlessly,
The magic of a common climax,
In the making,

(“Yeah, fuck”).

And I retrieve my dirty shorts,
And grab my dirty dick,
And put it back into my shorts,
And run away.

(This is so moralistic.)



John W. King teaches forensics and negotiation at San Francisco State University. He's infamous.

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