Death and desire on Venice Beach -- a poem by Jack Fritscher

Desire? Ha! At eighty, I remember Desire.
Forty years ago, half a lifetime,
I was seated on the Venice strand,
 outside some trendy surfer café,
under California sun hot and bright,
squinting toward the sea,
trying to clear my untransfigured vision
which movie-like had blurred about the edges.
Resuming reading A. Nin.
Touching my sweating glass of cool Perrier.
I looked up.
He was there.
Turned sensuously in upon himself.
Leaning against the white stucco wall.
Tanned, stripped to the waist,
white nylon beach trousers clinging wet
to his big soft dick and his muscular cyclist thighs,
wet from his healthy seasweat, from his plunge in the sea.
A white sweatband coiled his dark hair.
His face turned down
toward his white transparent crotch
where his cock stiffened, rose,
half under cover of his powerful right hand
teasing the tip of his olive-skinned meat.
His left hand toyed at the drawstrings at his tight waist.
He was gymnastically muscular:
arms, shoulders, chest, legs.
His young black goatee, seductive
as the curl of his black hair over his white headband,
defined his perfect dark face.
Not knowing him,
I knew when he finally looked up,
finally, from his crotched hand,
across desire’s distance to my eyes,
that he would be beautiful,
that he would lift my heart, sweet god, right out of me
and carry me up
into the brightness and light and heat of the sun,
and my eyes would burn no more.

Desire is no less than the brightness and heat
burning in a young man’s angel body.
He put his strong hand in mine
and led me wordlessly to a private place.
He peeled off my shirt and my swimsuit.
He kissed my wallet
and placed it respectfully
on top of my clothes.
He laid me back on the hot sand.
His dark goatee grinned over perfect white teeth.
He stripped off his white nylon trousers,
knowing my hot need, and knelt naked,
oh, astraddle my chest,
placing my right hand on my dick,
guiding my left hand to rub the salt-air seasweat
across his nipples darker than his tanned pectorals,
down his tight belly,
down into his crisp crotch,
palming his meaty balls,
wrapping my hand around his thick shaft.
“It’s yours.” (All he ever said to me.) “It’s all yours.”
His heat and sweat rained down on me.
He never touched himself.
He was stud.
His dick erected itself.
He knew to rise up on his knees,
to take the back of my head in his hands,
to place the head of his thick pud against my lips.
He fed me the taste of his soul.
I surrendered to the slow inching entry
of his cock parting my lips,
passing my teeth,
gliding across my tongue,
burrowing down my throat.
Ah, no wonder people run from dick.
Almost a challenge too much.
He reached down his arms,
twining his coaching fingers through my hair,
smiled and bounced my head in his hands,
tenderly pushing his full length of hard rod
deep back beyond my choke-ring,
beginning the careful rocking push
that men who are heroically hung know by sensitive heart.
He fucked the holiness of my face
that afternoon deeper than any angel ever penetrated.
Buried to his cockroot in my mouth,
he raised his splendid body up to the sun.
Impaled, I looked up at his body
that rose on the stem of his dick
buried deep between my lips
like some Incarnate Word
I had often spoken,
but never till now understood:

Late afternoon.
Coaxing. Coaching. Acceptance.
Sweat slicked our bodies.
I ached to cum, but could not
as long as this young man,
in no hurry to leave,
dreamed his dreams behind his closed eyes,
rocking his cock into my face
till my eyes cried for simple inexplicable joy.

At moonrise,
his rocking gained intensity.
My lips ringed his thickness.
His sweet pre-lube tunneled my throat deeper.
He leaned over me to push-up position,
abs flexing, raising hips and butt, thrusting,
fuck-driving my face full force,
long, thick, deep, push-ups,
fulfilling me with the sanctifying grace of final Desire,
with me rising to transfiguration,
wanting to freeze forever out of time
the sunburst moment of my infinite cuming
with that young man
ramming his foaming, seed-bearing dick
into my face and my head into the sand,
and I knew who I was and why I was.

(Artwork by Damien Hirst)

Jack Fritscher is the founding San Francisco editor of Drummer Magazine which was a first draft of leather history. He is the author of hundreds of erotic stories and poems, plus twenty books, including his memoir of his bicoastal lover, Robert Mapplethorpe. His books can be read free at His dual gay history site is


Post a Comment