Category: NaPoWriMo

Homo Haiku…

Alas, a lot has happened these last few weeks, that have prevented me from continuing to actively participate in National Poetry Writing Month (or, NaPoWriMo, for short).

From major Well-Being issues, to being massively busy with both my professional Psychic Practice, and my position of employment on the side, to, well, other things.

Nonetheless, I wanted to conclude my National Poetry Writing Month by engaging in Gay Male-themed Haiku, or, as I AM cleverly referring to it, “Homo Haiku.”

And here we go…


Hi, Adam and Steve

Are you here to show us how

Men have sex with men?

Daddy and his boy

Fucking, sucking, licking, more

Bonded, sex and love.


Gay Men marrying

With trials and tribulations

Success is assured.


And there you have it.

Now, I did some research and learned (or, rather, relearned) that Haiku lines rarely rhyme.  This is a good thing for me!

Before I close, I wish to acknowledge my newest blog follower, “missymichaels452.”  Thank you for all the wonderful ways you honor who you are and what you do.  May you receive great insight and great PRIDE from following “This Gay Man’s Life…”

And for those of you already following or reading “This Gay Man’s Life…” thank you for honoring who you are and what you do, and thank you so much for honoring who I AM and what I do, too.visualhaiku

NaPoWriMo, Day 10: “Prayer,” by Francisco X. Alarcón

Good morning, everyone, and a Happy Saturday and Day of Saturn (Planet of Divine Discipline) to all of you!  How are you today?

Well, yesterday I did not post my National Poetry Writing Month (or, NaPoWriMo, for short) posts for yesterday, Friday, April 10, 2015, so I AM doing a bit of catch up today.

I Lovingly present to all of you, “Prayer,” by Francisco X. Alarcón, which is another wonderful poem I found by visiting

Here we go…



by Francisco X. Alarcón

Translated by Francisco Aragón


I want a god

as my accomplice

who spends nights

in houses

of ill repute

and gets up late

on Saturdays


a god

who whistles

through the streets

and trembles

before the lips

of his lover


a god

who waits in line

at the entrance

of movie houses

and likes to drink

café au lait


a god

who spits

blood from

tuberculosis and

doesn’t even have

enough for bus fare


a god



by the billy club

of a policeman

at a demonstration


a god

who pisses

out of fear

before the flaring


of torture


a god

who hurts

to the last

bone and

bites the air

in pain


a jobless god

a striking god

a hungry god

a fugitive god

an exiled god

an enraged god


a god

who longs

from jail

for a change

in the order

of things


I want a

more godlike



This is from a collection entitled From the Other Side of Night/Del otro lado de la noche, published by University of Arizona Press, Copyright 2002.

The poet who penned "Prayer."
The poet who penned “Prayer.”

NaPoWriMo, Day 9: “Gay,” by RF…

I found this poem, via a search, using the Google.



by RF

If I wasn’t gay would people care?

Would they actually let me breathe the same air?

Could I actually go to school,

without people being so cruel?

Could I live in a world with no hate?

Maybe people would love me if I was straight.

It’s not as easy as people think.

I can’t just go to a shrink.

I didn’t choose to be this way.

You really think I’d want to be gay?

I don’t want attention,

I don’t want fame.

This isn’t some sort of game.

I am who I am and that’s okay.

Most people don’t see it that way.

I only wish I could be the same.

To have a wedding and it not be shamed.

I want to have kids and not be judged.

I don’t want my reputation smudged.

But apparently I’m different now.

Sick in the head somehow.

Therapy and shock treatment for something that can’t be fixed.

How did I get put into this mix?

Toxic and tragic,

that’s my life.

It’s like I was stabbed in the back with a knife.

I’m gay,

what’s wrong with that?

I get treated like some rat.

Using your holy books and your religion.

To fight against something that makes no difference.

I want to be human not a punching bag.

Always getting called a fag.

Let that word have power and it gets to you.

But that words as good as whatever is stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

I love being this way.

I don’t care what you say.


For more poems, please feel free to visit:


Thank you, and good night.tumblr_kuadyoKmXC1qawxujo1_500RAINBOW FLAG AND COLOR MEANINGS




NaPoWriMo, Day 8: “Please,” by Sappho…

Lately, figures from the Ancient Greek Cosmology have been making Their Presence known in my life.

And with that, I honorably transcribe this poem from the Divine Daughter of Lesbos, Sappho, entitled “Please.”



Come back to me, Gongyla, here tonight,

You, my rose, with your Lydian lyre.

There hovers forever around you delight:

A beauty desired.


Even your garment plunders my eyes.

I am enchanted: I who once

Complained to the Cyprus-born goddess,

Whom I now beseech


Never to let this lose me grace

But rather bring you back to me:

Amongst all mortal women the one

I most which to see.

–Translated by Paul Roche


For some more of the late and great Sappho’s poetry, feel free to visit:

For now, thank you, one and all, for honoring who you are and what you do.

Good night.

Thanks to for helping me find this image.
Thanks to for helping me find this image.

NaPoWriMo, Day 7: “My Voice,” by Rafael Campo…

Once again, the Poetry Foundation’s “LGBTQ Pride Poems” has helped me for tonight’s post, in honor of National Poetry Writing Month (or, NaPoWriMo, for short).

This one is not only written by a Gay Man, but by a Cuban Gay Man (which means I have two things in common with the poet).

And here it is:


My Voice,

by Rafael Campo

To cure myself of wanting Cuban songs,

I wrote a Cuban song about the need

For people to suppress their fantasies,

Especially unhealthy ones.  The song

Began by making reference to the sea,

Because the sea is like a need so great

And deep it never can be swallowed.  Then

The song explores some common myths

But the Cuban people and their folklore:

The story of a little Carib boy

Mistakenly abandoned by the sea;

The legend of a bird who wanted song

So desperately he gave up flight; a queen

Whose strength was greater than a rival king’s.

The song goes one about morality,

How deep it is, how many creatures need

Its nourishment, how beautiful it is

To need.  The song is ending now, because

I cannot bear to hear it any longer.

I call this song of needful love my voice.


I just finished reading Mr. Campo’s bio, and all I can say is ‘WOW!”

Thank you, one and all, for honoring who you are and what you do.

And good night!

A photo of Mr. Rafael Campo, from the Poetry Foundation’s Website.




NaPoWriMo, Day 6: “April Rain Song,” by Langston Hughes…

I AM very pleased to share that one of my favorite people on the Planet and fellow Bloggers, “Shell,” wrote a lovely blog post today, in honor of National Poetry Writing Month (or, NaPoWriMo, for short).

And so, without further ado, here is “April Rain Song,” by (the late and great) Langston Hughes:


Let the rain kiss you

Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops

Let the rain sing you a lullaby

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk

The rain makes running pools in a gutter

The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night

And I love the rain.


Offhand, I do not know if Shell knows that Langston Hughes was a Gay Man, but I found it interesting that the image that accompanies her post features a rainbow umbrella!

Please feel free to visit the original post (and please, no hating on the fact that Shell is a Blogspot Blogger!), by visiting:

Have a great night, and may the rain kiss you to sleep and bless you with Love and Light and Life.langston-hughes-with-hat-on

NaPoWriMo, Day 5: “A History of Sexual Preference,” by Robin Becker…

I found this poem on the Poetry Foundation’s “LGBTQ’s Pride Poems” page of their Website.

I especially love the fact that one of my favorite cities–Philadelphia–is the setting for the poem.

And here we go…


A History of Sexual Preference

By Robin Becker

We are walking our very public attraction
through eighteenth-century Philadelphia.
I am simultaneously butch girlfriend
and suburban child on a school trip,
Independence Hall, 1775, home
to the Second Continental Congress.
Although she is wearing her leather jacket,
although we have made love for the first time
in a hotel room on Rittenhouse Square,
I am preparing my teenage escape from Philadelphia,
from Elfreth’s Alley, the oldest continuously occupied
residential street in the nation,
from Carpenters’ Hall, from Congress Hall,
from Graff House where the young Thomas
Jefferson lived, summer of 1776. In my starched shirt
and waistcoat, in my leggings and buckled shoes,
in postmodern drag, as a young eighteenth-century statesman,
I am seventeen and tired of fighting for freedom
and the rights of men. I am already dreaming of Boston—
city of women, demonstrations, and revolution
on a grand and personal scale.
                                                       Then the maître d’
is pulling out our chairs for brunch, we have the
surprised look of people who have been kissing
and now find themselves dressed and dining
in a Locust Street townhouse turned café,
who do not know one another very well, who continue
with optimism to pursue relationship. Eternity
may simply be our mortal default mechanism
set on hope despite all evidence. In this mood,
I roll up my shirtsleeves and she touches my elbow.
I refuse the seedy view from the hotel window.
I picture instead their silver inkstands,
the hoopskirt factory on Arch Street,
the Wireworks, their eighteenth-century herb gardens,
their nineteenth-century row houses restored
with period door knockers.
Step outside.
We have been deeded the largest landscaped space
within a city anywhere in the world. In Fairmount Park,
on horseback, among the ancient ginkgoes, oaks, persimmons,
and magnolias, we are seventeen and imperishable, cutting classes
May of our senior year. And I am happy as the young
Tom Jefferson, unbuttoning my collar, imagining his power,
considering my healthy body, how I might use it in the service
of the country of my pleasure.
Feel free to visit:
for more wonderful poetry.
Thank you, one and all, for honoring who you are and what you do.  And good night.Robin-becker

NaPoWriMo, Day 3: “Movement Song,” by Audre Lorde…

In honor of Day 3 of National Poetry Writing Month (or, NaPoWriMo, for short), here is “Movement Song,” by Audre Lorde.


Movement Song

By Audre Lorde

I have studied the tight curls on the back of your neck
moving away from me
beyond anger or failure
your face in the evening schools of longing
through mornings of wish and ripen
we were always saying goodbye
in the blood in the bone over coffee
before dashing for elevators going
in opposite directions
without goodbyes.
Do not remember me as a bridge nor a roof
as the maker of legends
nor as a trap
door to that world
where black and white clericals
hang on the edge of beauty in five oclock elevators
twitching their shoulders to avoid other flesh
and now
there is someone to speak for them
moving away from me into tomorrows
morning of wish and ripen
your goodbye is a promise of lightning
in the last angels hand
unwelcome and warning
the sands have run out against us
we were rewarded by journeys
away from each other
into desire
into mornings alone
where excuse and endurance mingle
conceiving decision.
Do not remember me
as disaster
nor as the keeper of secrets
I am a fellow rider in the cattle cars
you move slowly out of my bed
saying we cannot waste time
only ourselves.

Audre Lorde, “Movement Song” from From a Land Where Other People Live. Copyright © 1973 by Audre Lorde.

Reprinted with the permission of the Charlotte Sheedy Literary AgencySource: The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde (W. W. Norton and Company Inc., 1997)

Please feel free to visit:
And, when you do, feel free to check out some other beautiful and powerful poems, written by some of the most beloved LGBT poets.
Thank you, one and all, for honoring who you are and what you do.audrelordefromthepoetryfoundationdotorg

NaPoWriMo, Day 2: Walt Whitman’s “Song of the Open Road”

Not only is Walt Whitman one of the most celebrated poets of all time, but he is often described as quite possibly having been a Gay Man or a Bisexual one.

In honor of National Poetry Writing Month (or, NaPoWriMo, for short), here is one of his most celebrated poems, “Song of the Open Road.”


Song of the Open Road



Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)


You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all
that is here,
I believe that much unseen is also here.

Here the profound lesson of reception, nor preference nor denial,
The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas’d, the
illiterate person, are not denied;
The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the
drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,
The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,
The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the
town, the return back from the town,
They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted,
None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me.


You air that serves me with breath to speak!
You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape!
You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!
You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides!
I believe you are latent with unseen existences, you are so dear to me.

You flagg’d walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!
You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined
side! you distant ships!
You rows of houses! you window-pierc’d facades! you roofs!
You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!
You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!
You doors and ascending steps! you arches!
You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings!
From all that has touch’d you I believe you have imparted to
yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me,
From the living and the dead you have peopled your impassive surfaces,
and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me.


The earth expanding right hand and left hand,
The picture alive, every part in its best light,
The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is
not wanted,
The cheerful voice of the public road, the gay fresh sentiment of the road.

O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me?
Do you say Venture not–if you leave me you are lost?
Do you say I am already prepared, I am well-beaten and undenied,
adhere to me?

O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you,
You express me better than I can express myself,
You shall be more to me than my poem.

I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all
free poems also,
I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,
I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever
beholds me shall like me,
I think whoever I see must be happy.


From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,
Listening to others, considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that
would hold me.

I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.

All seems beautiful to me,
can repeat over to men and women You have done such good to me
I would do the same to you,
I will recruit for myself and you as I go,
I will scatter myself among men and women as I go,
I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them,
Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me,
Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me.


Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear it would not amaze me,
Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear’d it would not
astonish me.

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,
It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.

Here a great personal deed has room,
(Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men,
Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms law and mocks all
authority and all argument against it.)

Here is the test of wisdom,
Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,
Wisdom cannot be pass’d from one having it to another not having it,
Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,
Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content,
Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the
excellence of things;
Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes
it out of the soul.

Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,
They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the
spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing currents.

Here is realization,
Here is a man tallied–he realizes here what he has in him,
The past, the future, majesty, love–if they are vacant of you, you
are vacant of them.

Only the kernel of every object nourishes;
Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me?
Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?

Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion’d, it is apropos;
Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers?
Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls?


Here is the efflux of the soul,
The efflux of the soul comes from within through embower’d gates,
ever provoking questions,
These yearnings why are they? these thoughts in the darkness why are they?
Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight
expands my blood?
Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?
Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious
thoughts descend upon me?
(I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees and always
drop fruit as I pass;)
What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers?
What with some driver as I ride on the seat by his side?
What with some fisherman drawing his seine by the shore as I walk by
and pause?
What gives me to be free to a woman’s and man’s good-will? what
gives them to be free to mine?


The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness,
I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times,
Now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged.

Here rises the fluid and attaching character,
The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of
man and woman,
(The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day
out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet
continually out of itself.)

Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the
love of young and old,
From it falls distill’d the charm that mocks beauty and attainments,
Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact.


Allons! whoever you are come travel with me!
Traveling with me you find what never tires.

The earth never tires,
The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude
and incomprehensible at first,
Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop’d,
I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.

Allons! we must not stop here,
However sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling
we cannot remain here,
However shelter’d this port and however calm these waters we must
not anchor here,
However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted
to receive it but a little while.


Allons! the inducements shall be greater,
We will sail pathless and wild seas,
We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper
speeds by under full sail.

Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements,
Health, defiance, gayety, self-esteem, curiosity;
Allons! from all formules!
From your formules, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests.

The stale cadaver blocks up the passage–the burial waits no longer.

Allons! yet take warning!
He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance,
None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health,
Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself,
Only those may come who come in sweet and determin’d bodies,
No diseas’d person, no rum-drinker or venereal taint is permitted here.

(I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes,
We convince by our presence.)


Listen! I will be honest with you,
I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes,
These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is call’d riches,
You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,
You but arrive at the city to which you were destin’d, you hardly
settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call’d by an
irresistible call to depart,
You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those
who remain behind you,
What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with
passionate kisses of parting,
You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach’d hands
toward you.


Allons! after the great Companions, and to belong to them!
They too are on the road–they are the swift and majestic men–they
are the greatest women,
Enjoyers of calms of seas and storms of seas,
Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land,
Habitues of many distant countries, habitues of far-distant dwellings,
Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers,
Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore,
Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of
children, bearers of children,
Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers-down of coffins,
Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious
years each emerging from that which preceded it,
Journeyers as with companions, namely their own diverse phases,
Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days,
Journeyers gayly with their own youth, journeyers with their bearded
and well-grain’d manhood,
Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass’d, content,
Journeyers with their own sublime old age of manhood or womanhood,
Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe,
Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.


Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless,
To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights,
To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights
they tend to,
Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys,
To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,
To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it,
To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you,
however long but it stretches and waits for you,
To see no being, not God’s or any, but you also go thither,
To see no possession but you may possess it, enjoying all without
labor or purchase, abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one
particle of it,
To take the best of the farmer’s farm and the rich man’s elegant
villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, and
the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens,
To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through,
To carry buildings and streets with you afterward wherever you go,
To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter
them, to gather the love out of their hearts,
To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave
them behind you,
To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for
traveling souls.

All parts away for the progress of souls,
All religion, all solid things, arts, governments–all that was or is
apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners
before the procession of souls along the grand roads of the universe.

Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of
the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance.

Forever alive, forever forward,
Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble,
Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men,
They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go,
But I know that they go toward the best–toward something great.

Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth!
You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though
you built it, or though it has been built for you.

Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen!
It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it.

Behold through you as bad as the rest,
Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people,
Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash’d and trimm’d faces,
Behold a secret silent loathing and despair.

No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession,
Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes,
Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and
bland in the parlors,
In the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly,
Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bedroom,
Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the
breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones,
Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers,
Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself,
Speaking of any thing else but never of itself.


Allons! through struggles and wars!
The goal that was named cannot be countermanded.

Have the past struggles succeeded?
What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? Nature?
Now understand me well–it is provided in the essence of things that
from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth
something to make a greater struggle necessary.

My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion,
He going with me must go well arm’d,
He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies,


Allons! the road is before us!
It is safe–I have tried it–my own feet have tried it well–be not
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the
shelf unopen’d!
Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn’d!
Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!
Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the
court, and the judge expound the law.

Camerado, I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourselp. will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?


Thank you to for this find.

And thank you, dear blog followers and readers, for helping me honor and celebrate National Poetry Writing Month.Walt_Whitman_-_George_Collins_Cox

NaPoWriMo, Day 1: “You Are the Man; I Am the Boy”

So, in my preparations for National Poetry Writing Month (or, NaPoWriMo, for short), I found this WordPress Blog entitled “Erotic Gay Poetry: Erotic Poetry for Your Erotic Pleasure.”

All I can say is HOT DAMN!

Well, I thought this would be a great way to begin NaPoWriMo on “This Gay Man’s Life…” with a big bang!


“You Are the Man; I Am the Boy”

I saw you in the bar,
Struttin’ stuff as though you were some star,
Muscles bulging everywhere,
Tattoos placed adroitly here and there.

You saw me all suited up in coat and tie,
Knew that you had caught my eye.
You know I know you’re quite the man.
I can’t help but admire your tan.

You, in your hot tighty-whites.
Do you know I’m hopin’ that we might?
My God, you think I’m just a fool.
Just lookin’ at you, you make me drool.

What are you gonna make me do tonight?
I’m melting in this suit too tight.
Take me in your arms and have your way.
I’ll do anything you say.

Do you want my virgin ass?
Will you fuck me on the grass?
Please don’t make me beg for more.
Please just fuck me on the floor.

Be tender when you take me deep,
Don’t laugh when you see me weep.
Penetrate my boyish charms.
I’ll be happy within your arms.


For more of this fellow WordPress Blogger’s work, feel free to visit:

And now, NaPoWriMo is off to a roll!

Before I close, I wish to acknowledge my newest blog follower, “Rosey.”  Thank you for honoring who you are and what you do.  May you receive great insight and great PRIDE from following “This Gay Man’s Life…”

If anyone knows who the “Man” is, please let me know. I know that the “Boy” is Johnny Rapid.

And to those of you already following or reading “This Gay Man’s Life…” thank you for honoring who you are and what you do, and for honoring who I AM and what I do, too.