To conceal our rude dowels,
We were wrapped in white towels
But the kid spread his out on his cot,
Then reclined on his back,
Plucked open his crack
And inserted K-Y up his twat.
Just a blond, bonny boy,
Not in any way coy,
Undulating gyrating crevasse,
Legs divided and bent
For to better present
Frontally, cuntily, ass.
The towel was to catch
Any leaks from his snatch,
All ejaculatory excess.
The thought of those drops
Seeping out of his chops
Escalated the hall’s horniness.
Then the kid closed his eyes,
Elevated his thighs,
And commanded all cocks in to cum.
Elders bruited around,
“There’s a butt wanting browned.
Better get into line and get some.”
Everybody had tongues.
Everybody had bungs.
Everybody bore seminal pods.
But the catamite’s blunt
Self-reduction to cunt
Ratified ev’rybody as rods.
So I felt myself swell
And I said, “What the hell,”
And got into the queue to give juice.
I stood with my hand
Underneath my towel, and
Pulled my pud to be ready for use.
Soon a long line had formed
And we heard the kid stormed
By the first fuck to enter his door.
How he moaned as the first
Of our company burst
In his lubricious tube like a boar.
Now the atmosphere was
Brash and bawdy, a-buzz
With the promise of pending release.
We were boys in a frat
Lucking out, looking at
A communal, anonymous piece.
We were sailors in port,
Self-advancers at court,
Soldiers eyeing a drunk in a bunk,
Groaning drones servicing
A great, glistening queen
Amid sexual, insectual funk.
The kid was reduced
To a gap to get goosed
By our prods with explosive intent.
As our chargers got charged
His behind was enlarged
In our minds to a meat monument.
Race, religion, and class
Were dispelled by that ass
With its massive and passive reproof
That, divested of duds,
We were all silly studs,
Dumb containers for cum on the hoof.
Men who hardly would greet
If they passed on the street
In divisive, diverse uniforms
Here were stripped of disguise,
Bound as bulls by the rise
Of identical sensual storms.
In the backs of our brains
We discovered remains
Of religions remote as we played
In a crude, incondite
Eleusinian rite
That was once dignified and arrayed.
We were in Babylon,
Devotees duly drawn
Toward rolling, controlling white buns
Of a sexual slave
Cleft to show his dark cave
Where initiates got off their guns.
Deep in wells dug in rocks,
Persians cut off their cocks
And their balls to become temple whores.
So the boy in the room
Had become a huge womb
To seduce and reduce our gorged gores.
When such rites were proscribed,
Men were bullied and bribed
To enact them, defying the state.
In a dark alley-way,
An asshole in Pompeii
Scrawled the ritual Show hard, make date.
This religion, repressed,
Recrudesced and tumesced
Any time that men gathered with men,
And in barracks and ships
The hot hole in the hips
Was enjoyed as it always had been.
In Athenian heights
On particular nights
Men would drink not to think as they sprawled,
Then dishevel their robes
To reveal hairy globes
With a butthole that begged to be balled.
In Catullus’s Rome
With the Capitol’s dome
Hanging, clanging that butt was a vice,
Men ate asses in baths,
Flouting all aftermaths
Just to service each other’s sweet splice.
After pagan defeats,
In monastic retreats
Any pretty young novice was told
That he must grow a beard,
For the Fatherhood feared
That a fair face would get his ass poled.
In my southwestern land
Where the butthole was banned
As a joke not to be spoken of,
Cowboys wooed with the song,
“Nights are long, oh, so long.
Gotta get me somebody to love.”
All of us in that line
To defile the divine
Waiting wound that we heard being had
Had been taught we’d be burned
In hot Hell if we yearned
To deliver a load in a lad.
But the fever of youth
Told the tenderer truth
That the cock had to cum in the crack,
So despite gods and laws
We were lined up because
Gut was good and we wouldn’t turn back.
As engorgement peeled husks
Off the tips of our tusks,
Our sarongs bulged with prongs like pale fruits.
We all jerked uncontrolled
Through the waistband or fold
Of the towels that enshrouded our shoots.
We wankers in line,
Feeling phallic and fine,
Gaily joked as we stroked our taut tools.
Buggers worshiping butt,
Shuffling stallions in rut,
We all broke one of Everard’s rules
As we tugged off our towels
Among manly avowals
That the damned things were feeling too tight.
Uncontained cocks and balls
Sent their scents down the halls
As we waited for nooky that night.
All the bored employees.
Police-force retirees,
Saw us standing illicitly stripped
And were moved to object,
But retired from respect
Of the god by whom all goads were gripped.
A drunk coming in,
Gaped to see naked men
As he clawed with a key at his door,
And a dick brushed my butt
And my prick pushed a rut
As we jostled toward our hot whore.
For, oh, what a mass
Of assailable ass
Hung available there where we stood.
And oh, what a stock
Of respectable cock,
And we wondered if maybe we should…
So we played as we pleased
With the asses we squeezed
And the cocks that we teased in the gloom,
But we all knew we must
Hold our trophies in trust
For the priestess oiled up in her room.
The drunk stumbled out,
Waving hard-on about,
Looking funky and phallic and fine,
Then staggered to stand
Towel and tool in each hand
At the end of the lumbering line.
Like great droplets of dew
Or thick globules of goo,
Devotees shuffled fo
rward like slaves
As the pricks who had spilled
Came out limp and fulfilled
Like the undead released from their graves.
When a man entered in
To that vaginal den,
Every aching erection would pulse,
Throbbing just on the verge
Of a seminal purge
As we heard each hot cocksman convulse.
Every brain in the chain
Fucked again and again
That vicarious, visualized slit.
Every act grew more quick
As each man felt his prick
Growing closer and closer to it.
How I swallowed a laugh,
Stimulating my staff
While forbidding my seed to disperse
In the glory and grief
Of suspended relief
Not unlike certain techniques of verse.
Then a fucker came out
Drooling cum from his spout,
And the cock before mine climbed the kid.
I ogled the mass
Of his big apple-ass
Slapping happily as he slip-slid.
My genitals got
So unbearably hot
That I let my hand slide to the tip,
For had I clutched the rod
I’d have shot out my wad
Watching that big behind grind and grip.
I felt what he felt
As he made his dick melt
In the ass that already was soaked,
And I wanted my stump
In his high-riding rump
Which made mean little mouths as he poked.
I was wildly aroused
By the thought of what housed
His exploring and goring extreme,
And I’d seen the huge knob
On his fat little lob,
Just the thing to give gut a good ream,
And his heaving, hot hole
Writhing out of control
Made my schlong long to ruin his rear,
And panting to pole
Someone in the male role
Had me feeling incredibly queer.
I twiddled my glans
And the next willing man’s,
While I watched all I saw of the fun:
Just my forefucker’s seat
And a pair of pale feet
On his shoulders as he got his gun.
My pulse muttered, “I
Could cram into that guy
To fuck him as he bucks in that bung,
And the next guy, you see,
Could get on and in me—”
But I just squeezed my meat where it hung.
Never, ever before,
As I eyed his back door,
Had I so longed to stuff a butt’s yawn.
I was me, I was him,
We were us, we were them
Who’d observe us in rut and climb on.
Universally male,
Universally hale,
Universally under cock’s curse,
Universally rapt,
Universally trapped,
Yawning yoni was our universe.
So I watched my prior priest
In the butt of the beast,
The upreared reliquary he raunched,
His desirable duff
Undulating to stuff
Where so many lewd loads had been launched.
I was flexing my thighs.
There were tears in my eyes
And my lips were parched dry from hot breath.
My pelvis was just
An amalgam of lust
As he labored for his little death.
Then, when he’d gotten off,
He got off with a cough
And came out with a whispered, “Hot shit.”
Then my shadow obscured
The asshole that allured
As I felt for, then fell into it.
Oh, the state of that hole
As I put in my pole!
It was drippily, slippily wet,
More a sluice than a slice,
Or, to be more concise,
As appealing as asshole can get.
For the thought of the cocks
That had shot molten rocks
Up that gully that so fully gaped,
And their bouncing behinds
As they blew out their minds,
Made it their poles and assholes I raped.
My vagina on view
As I fucked the foul flue,
My buns billowing open and shut,
I muscled him mean,
For I envied that queen
All the men who had been up his butt.
I was wholly aware
Of my hole in the air
As I fucked in his slushy, hot mush,
And my knowing the next
Dick desired what I flexed
Made me pop in that slop with a gush.
Then I sighed and half-swooned
And withdrew from the wound,
Shoving by the next guy in the chain,
Grunting, “Fucking great gash,”
As I stalked off to splash
In the shower and piss down the drain.
As I strolled the cell-block,
Looking now for rock cock,
There were plenty of men still lined up
With their towels on their necks,
Salivating for sex
Mad to add to the cum in the cup.
It was just a dark cell,
Not the heavenly hell
Where I’d just been the man of all men.
But the line, it would seem,
Was still dreaming that dream,
And the drunk guy was just going in.
They were zombies in thrall
To a mystical call
Which no longer now beat in my bone,
And their queen a mere pawn
As I passed them by, drawn
By a mystical call of my own.
I located by smell
A pitch-black orgy-cell,
Where on hard cement platforms and shelves
Men beyond or above
Holding out for true love
Polymorphously proffered themselves.
There I felt lots of rungs
And I smelt lots of bungs,
Then I fell down ass-up on the floor
To get fucked by a crew
Of butt-fuckers whose goo
I’d been fucking in minutes before.
THE DOCTOR IS IN
Daniel W. Kelly
My specialty of medical practice isn’t the most glamorous, and it’s usually the butt of jokes. Like that one, for example. But my personal favorite is What’s it like working with a bunch of assholes every day?
The thing is, once in a while, an asshole really stands out in a crowd—or should I say, a crack. And this particular time, the asshole belonged to a patient named Ron. The first time Ron came in, it was because his primary care physician had suggested he start going yearly for a thorough prostate exam and all that en-“tails,” since he was reaching the ripe young age of thirty-five.
The instant I saw Ron, I had one of those fleeting moments where I felt like my profession was well worth all its downsides —or backsides, in this case.
Sorry. Those bad puns start to rub off on me, so I try to beat others to the punch.
Anyway, before I’d even stepped into the examination room, my assistant, Steve, a young, hunky nurse whom I hired as much for his appearance as for his resume, handed me the paperwork on a clipboard and whispered, “Something scrumptious waiting in room three for ya.”
Steve really knew how to call them. He’d had my patient strip down to his underwear and socks—that’s procedure, honest. I was presented with a stocky, hairy man, sitting with legs apart, and doing a hell of a job of filling the crotch of his gray boxer-briefs. Occasionally, a guy really packs a bulge with what are obviously larger than avera
ge testicles and penis. Ron was one of those guys. He had muscular hairy thighs and calves, and his stomach was pretty flat, his chest full, and his arms, which were pushing down on each side of the examination table he was sitting on, revealed well-defined triceps.
When he looked up at me, I could have melted. His head was shaven and showed a thin layer of stubble—his brazen way to combat a receding hairline. His chiseled features were sculpted by a few days’ worth of whiskers. He had a really sexy, slightly crooked and swollen boxer’s nose and gorgeous sky blue eyes. Of course, I couldn’t help but notice the wedding ring on his finger.
I had him describe his overall health in what turned out to be a strong but subdued baritone. I asked how his digestive system was doing as a whole, and he said it was good, that he made sure to eat fiber and followed a nutritious diet and exercise regime. I told him in a very professional, doctor-to-patient tone that I could see that he stayed fit.
Then it was time for the general exam. I plugged my stethoscope into my ears and placed the other end on his swollen pec. His soft chest hair tickled my hand as I listened to his heart, and I watched one of his ample nipples turn hard as a reaction to the cold metal instrument. I moved near the other nipple to even things out, and unable to control myself, allowed the tips of my fingers to accidentally brush over the nipple. It, too, turned hard.
My heart was beating double the time of Ron’s, and I reminded myself that this was a patient. I finished the general exam, then explained how exactly the prostate exam was given. While turning to the supply cabinet, I asked him to drop his underwear and bend over on top of the exam table.
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