PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Imagine the thick foliage of that garden in the English countryside,

attached to an ancient manor house owned by a historic, ennobled family:

their guests are two beautiful boys on summer break from school,

blossoming in their adolescence.  They have been lovers for more than

two years (the term "boy friends" has not yet been invented).

Far from the prejudices and pruderies of London,

they have decided to take tea in the garden through which they have been

strolling.  The sky is a little overcast today, but the air is pleasantly warm.  The

boys' hairstyles are unfashionably long, well below the collars of

their frilly, button-down shirts with long, balloon sleeves; the shirts that

are no longer tucked into the waists of the gray trousers; with which

they have worn, after a brief consultation following the morning's love,

fawn-gray socks---semi-sheer, except for the soft opacity that ensheathes

their toes---and the soles are already heavily grass-stained.  (Have I

mentioned they dislike the confinement of shoes?---tolerable only when

weather or surfaces afford no cooperation whatsoever.)  The delicate

features of their faces---their winsom gazes and shy smiles---are

considered effeminate by the haters who judge and despise them; but

much appreciated among those who cherish such exquisite beauty, and the

exquisite delights of homoerotic romance.  The law of the land forbids

them to be lovers and best friends with the most severe penalty.  Poor

Oscar is, at this very time---this very day---incarcerated in Reading Gaol for

loving according to his nature (and not according to antiquated

statutes, parliamentary majorities, or ceremonial jurisprudence).  As they

sip their tea, their feet---beneath the wrought-iron table---embrace each

other, a private gesture between them with which each assures the

other of love, and the comfort of acceptance.  They talk of erotic poetry---of

Achilles and Patroclus, lovers, riding bareback on Chiron, himself

tumescent at the very thought of the beauty he was transporting; of

Orpheus and Kalain, for whom Orpheus composed his most seductive

songs; and Narcissus, not a self-lover entranced by his own reflection, but the

beloved of the very pool he will enter, also tumescent, to be caressed by the

eagerly lapping water, and therein to release his sweetness.  They speak of the

joy of awakening, in each other's embrace, with the late morning light

streaming into the high window and on to their bodies, naked except for the

dark socks of last night's evening wear.  And the nostrils of each are filled with the

fragrance of his lover; the mouth of each is filled with the

flavor of his lover; and the day begins as it will conclude . . . with love.

Thus aroused, each unbuttons the shirt of his lover, and passes his

hand beneath the fabric, on to the warm torso flesh, especially those

sensual circlets, the nubbins of which are now erect and ready for the

offered caresses of pleasure . . . .

Starward

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