by David-Matthew Barnes
(10/01/08)

Bus Boy

You give me porno
thoughts of hot,
ramming, Greek God love.
Of sun kissed sex
on stubbly shores
of my tide pool mind.
You look like a man
that I once swam from
to this smooth island of skin.
Here, I drink lukewarm
Resina and Seven-Up,
endure mindless midnight
rendezvouses with
awkward American boys
from Bloomington and Boston.
Too bad they bore me
with their bad skin, bad breath, bad
impressions of better
looking men.

But I take the bus each day
to Mylopatas Beach. There you are
moving through us, collecting
tickets from lewd
strangers like me
who are tantalized
by the edge of your tan,
the way you lean
forward and press and press,
gentle, forbidden, against
their hands that grip the back
of the seat in front of them.
As the bus curves and bends
around tongue licking tight
turns, each one causes us to catch
our sweet breath. Much like the
sensation you give us when
your cock accidentally
grazes across the back
of our knuckles and we are left
craving a drink, a date, a dare.

Hickey

While your Prom date was passed out
on a torn mattress on the floor of
your bedroom, barefoot
in her black cocktail dress, wicked
matching purse and wilted white
carnation corsage, you and I were
tuxedoed and lip locked in unspeakable
passion that was finally released when
you offered to drive me home in your
lowrdin,' souped up, bass boomin'
barbaric Monte Carlo. Mexican
boy. Sex God. Rebellious roughneck.
Fine-as-hell football player star.
My skin became one with the shiny
sheen of the leather upholstered backseat,
my handprints emblazoned on the window,
your voice in my ear, panting my name,
declarations of your urban Latin love.
You branded me, like territory, leaving
your mark on my neck. On Monday
morning, there were rumors and speculations
at school and the unspoken knowledge
that no one else
was ever allowed
to touch me.

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