3 poems | m. j. arcangelini


In his late 20s he liked older men, In my late 60s I was over-qualified. Stocky, very hairy with a particularly Beautiful round and furry ass. I tried blowing him but the Meth wouldn’t let him get hard. He invited me to take his ass instead, I wasn’t going to turn that down. I kept at it as long as I could, His ass rising to the rhythm, Until I shot deep inside him. We both collapsed. Later he Showed me his anime-inspired Drawings and videos of South Korean Pop stars who, he assured me, would be The next big thing.


The cut of the suit, fitted or structured, and the choice of fabric can accentuate or hide the body it embraces. This hand emerging from a sleeve fingers a button, considering his next step. Underneath the dark cloth, white boxers hold the decision. Desire resides not in the cut or fabric of a suit, but in the way the man chooses to remove it; teasing, seductively folding each element, or hastily, possessed with passionate urgency.


Naked young man on his knees on the low table, head bowed, backside toward the other. And that other, the older man, struggling quick out of his pants before the moment has a chance to fade, to pass without his having had the opportunity to accept what is being offered to him so freely. Fumbling with the zipper, the belt, all that fabric between him and fulfilment.

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