All I want is to put it in her, only can ‘t pump it up enough and wonder what I might do instead, even now,
so much later, I finally managed to get it where it ought to be, too late, you
can’t do it to a ghost, and sometimes, I wonder if she always had other plans
for me, wishful thinking inspired by wish-filled dreams, putting it wherever
she wants, my head spinning like a top, an issue I can never resolve, leaving the
climax to take place in m dreams.
I feel the absence like I would a missing tooth, not fully
aware after all this time why it occurred, only aware of the reality, the blackhole
into which my whole world collapsed, back then, this day before the day when
Spring comes, a long six weeks since he groundhog saw his shadow. This time of
year – like back then – is always the start of something new, and often
unexpected, the vacancy of winter aching to get filled, and I wait, and I
wonder, how is it I can fill up something so long gone, something I still crave
to get back, even when it is clear, some spaces just can’t be refilled, and we
must live with the vacancy.
I see a lot
Even when I’m not
Looking at her
not all through
the camera lens
with which I steered
through this odd
landscape,
where I had no business being,
her world, not mine,
even she seems a stranger here,
remote, sad, concerned,
under dressed for the
occasion
most thought might be
black tie,
I look elsewhere each
time
she came into view,
scared I might turn
to stone
or a pillar of salt
yet (I was) aware of where she is,
and her stares back,
and the sense of the
misplaced,
the need for all of
us to play
new roles in this
passion play of politics,
in which people switch sides
so often it is impossible to know
who is loyal to whom
and for how long,
yet, she seems to fit anyway
a humming bird
flitting
from flower to flower
until she finds a
flavor
she likes,
sometimes needing to
sample all the nectar
to see which tastes best
and which wants her
tasting them.
she is what she is and will always be
not a china doll yet as distinct
bearing herself with
great nobility
yet humble to as if she can't distinguish
between the two and
we
who see her like to Honey are drawn
dreaming of what she might be
like at dawn curtain,
sheets rumpled f
rom the night so sweet
we paint portraits of
her in our minds
though in truth these
are not kind reflections
they are of of what
it is we wish to see
not the woman we should know her to be
she is what she is
and always will be
even if it is not the
soul we think we see
Noble and sweet
And we at her feet
she being all she needs to be
and we too foolish to
see
WTF
The old year
Like an old man
Passes away today,
We see rebirth,
Only she throws out
The baby with
The bath water
We don’t know
What is what
Some bit of
Theatrics played
As the ball drops
In Times Square,
Leaving us to believe
What ends up
At the bottom
Isn’t what it was
When it started
On top.
Who do you blame?
It feels like
A conteniental shift,
Leave me wondering
Which side of the
Great divide
She’s ended up on
Will we ever hear
From her again.
This idea of change,
The sense of new
Replacing old,
This desperate need
To begin again,
On the right foot
This time,
On the right path,
Towards the right
Destination,
Leaving all
The baggage behind,
To find some new way
To get what she needs
Or wants or deserves,
The old year dying
Right before our eyes
The new year crying
For something
We as yet
Cannot give
How many angels can you fit on the tip of a pin, this age
old question hanging over me, and yet has only one real answer.
How many do you need when one is more than enough?
This idea that everybody has a guardian angel has always
puzzled me, as if God mass produced them to keep up with all the people popping
out, like a rubber stamp or on an assembly line.
One to one is enough if it is the right angle, whose soul
(do angels have souls like people?) is gentle and kind, unlike the stern nuns
who used to beat me in grammar school in order to bringing me salvation, and
get me back on track.
I keep looking over one shoulder for the angel God assigned
to me, then over my other shoulder for the one the Devil sent, the second
having had much more influence on me than my angel or the nuns, though more
than once I’ve wished for the protection angles are supposed to give, hoping
the good outweighs the bad I’ve done, and while I might blame it all on the
devil (the devil made me do it), I know I got here all on my own.
“I got good news and bad news for you, “ my Urologist said
during my semi annual check up.
The good news was the m PSA levels had gone down, indicating
less chance of cancer.
Two years ago, these levels jumped from one to six, and
while not the deadly level of ten that indicated possible cancer. it was a real concern, prompting painful procedures
that included a snake-like camera pushed up into my penis (with only a local that
only reduced the pain at the tip. Later, I underwent an MRI, pet scan and other
similar procedures, topped off with a very painful series of biopsies.
The surgery that I got later was a scraping that allowed me
to pee, but had screwed up my ability to cum. While I could still have sex, the
cum tended to remain in the plumbing long afterwards, oozing out into my
underwear at most inconvenient times.
All that said, the bad news is that my prostate – almost the
size of a baseball – was showing no sign of reduction, and as a result, my
growing prostate began the inevitable shrinking of my cock.
As a teenager, I had accepted the myth said claimed a man with
a nose as big as mine had a large cock as well.
But now with my prostate growing, my cock had gone from a
barely adequate six inches to slightly more than three with every indication I
might watch it vanish entirely. This, of course, affected erections
I consulted my gay friend, Max, who knew as much as prostates
as my urologist, and I asked him what could be done.
He gravely told me not a lot, but with hopeful news, I might
find ways to compensate for my inadequate sex life, and might enjoy a revival
of the pleasures I had when I was still a teen.
It took me a moment to get his meaning, and when I did, I
said, “no way!”
When I consulted my urologist on the matter, he reluctantly
confirmed my gay friend’s analysis, though added I would need to do much more
if I intended to go that way, estrogen shots and testosterone blockers – which would
shrink my penis more and might require the removing on my testicles entirely.
But what I lost down below, I would gain upstairs. Max said this often resulted
in development of breasts – but the process could help me shift my source of sexual
gratification to my mouth and to my ass, which Max called my boi pussy.
I asked Max if I could still masturbate. He shook his head.
“You could rub what’s left, but you’d get more pleasure by
sticking your fingers up your ass,” he said, noting that if I went the drug
route the urologist suggested, I would find my pleasure center shifted to that
part of my body anyway.
I did not consult my urologist about Max’s suggestions for
oral and anal sex. Frankly, I did not want to know anything about it, even
though Max said he would help dress me up so I was in a more receptive mood, by
which he meant wearing women’s clothing 44/7, making me fit the role that my enlarged
prostate appeared to be seeking me to play.
“So, you’re saying you want to turn me into a woman?” I asked.
“As close as you can get without getting extensive surgery,”
Max said. “You’ll never be able to use your winky the way you used to, so why
not go all the way?”
I won’t say I wasn’t tempted. I ached to feel the way I once
did. But I was still attached to my winky, having lived with its up and down
moods my entire life. I would miss it if it wasn’t there.
Max was clearly disappointed when I told him that I didn’t
want to go that way and I would just have to live with the shrinkage.
He proposed a compromise. If I didn’t want men fucking me in
the ass, I could still derive pleasure from sucking their cocks.
“I’m sure you’d make a great cock sucker,” Max said.
