He was conceived in Kyoto,
and born in Seoul---because
his father was employed at the
consulate. In those venues, he
grew into his considerable beauty;
and, despite societal expectations,
knew that he needed to love and be loved
according to the nature God had given him.
Exchange student during our sophomore
collegiate year, he refused to be daunted by
that first Friday's blast of winter blizzard.
After last class, he returned to our room:
clad in a parka, flannel shirt and bib overalls,
thick woold socks and hearty hiking boots. Parka,
socks, and boots came off at once. His slender bare
feet began to draw my thoughts to themselves---the
surface of those soles, his ten morsel toes, as my
own inhibitions, once as obstructive as ice now
merely melted into the steam of homoromantic desire.
We ordered delivery pizza, and consumed it like
boys anticipating their first unsupervised sleepover.
Moonrise filled our eleventh floor window with fullness, the
lunar surface seemed so near, and the light reflected so
well, that the landmarks there seemed easily visible to the
naked eye. Both of us were, by them, delightedly and
contentedly naked---beneath a sheet, two blankets, and two
massive quilts. As he snuggled his backside against me and
began to suck on my fingertips, I realized he had put
semi-sheer socks on---delicately fragrant and flavorful,
delicately soft and flawlessly sensual,
vivified by his unclad natural beauty---
not the least his pulsing engorgement, so close to the
sevenfold surges that should release his glistening
sweetness to me.
J-Called