PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In front of us, and seemingly above us, the

vast movie screen showed us (at the film's

central point), two utterly beautiful,

long-haired young men:  an athlete and a

choirboy, outdoors on a sultry summer night.

Without the least concession to homophobia,

and the ridiculous dress codes' expectations,

they had taken off their shoes and shirts

beneath the constellated sky.  Their trousers

were just like any we might wear:  cargo

pants and slightly oversized jeans---very

distressed, like my Beloved, BlueShift favored.

Having purchased a copy of the local

newspaper just before we paid for our tickets,

BlueShift had spread it on the very sticky

floor (the theater not spectacularly clean) to

protect his midnight blue, very fragrant socks

from which the stiff, unyielding confinemment of

shoes has been removed.  The denim cuffs that

nearly concealed his socks were frayed and

tattered, just the way he liked.  He leaned

toward me and said, "Let me open your shirt," and

he proceeded to untuck it from my very plain

pants' waistband, and then unbuttoned it fully.

Then he slipped his hand beneath the flaps and

begin to caress me playfully.  I engorged at

once; and, for the duration of the film, BlueShift's

hand continued to dance upon, over, and around my

bared torso.  After the film, and before we

drove to the Pizzaria, he boldly continued the

seduction and manually harvested my glistening

sweetstuff (thousands of tadpole galaxies) which

BlueShift, still shoeless (as he always preferred),

devoured after the release and splashdown.  Then

he kissed me, allowing me to taste my own

flavor within the privacy of his mouth. 

Starward-Led