To the Artist's Page To our home page
To Shane Allison's previous piece To Shane Allison's next piece
Bryan's Jeans You are the man with the Good brown boyfriend. You're the son Who lives rent Free in parent's Trailer, the queer With the paralegal Job at a prestigious law firm. I get gay Porno over your HUBBY that works in Kay Bee Toys. Lucky guys like You don't end Up with freaks. Lucky guys never Kneel to denim crotches To give head To married men In denial. You don't live With your folks At 26 or in a room cold Enough to freeze TV dinners in. The last job I held was At a video Store working under A guy named Andy of blond Hair, eyes like The sky who Chain-smoked. I Had dreams of Fucking him, but He had a Girlfriend who he Later married. He Fired me after The 2-week Probationary period. He Later quit for A desk job At a bank. Guess that never worked out. He lost More weight than Richard Simmons. But Enough about him, That's history. Why Aren't you my Fucking boyfriend baking Me hazel nut White cream cheese Cake? What ever Happened to talking On the phone Till six in The morning? What ever happened To touch-tone phone sex While your folks Were asleep? It'll only take me A minute to put on pants, Wash face, brush teeth And I'll be right there With photos of my feet For your pleasure. I'll take a few pictures of My dick too for your eyes only. You can keep them under your mattress In socks or a shoebox. It's a little something to remember me By when you move to Atlanta. Don't hide them too hard. You'll need those Kodak moments When you're low down and horny And HUBBY has nothing better To do but to work on your birthday. I dream of you rolling Underwear down those hairy legs to ankles Over creamy feet. I wanted to fuck you since The first day I saw you in Subway. You staring shyly from the window. I stare warmly at your ass as you walk out Of this town's only gay bookstore. Warmly down your jeans As you reach over to put out that dark black cigarette. In case you're wondering, that's my tongue between The cheeks of the butt, firm in those discolored jeans As you reach above Comedy Central to the picture of your nephew. I'm coming in your hair. Shoot loads of who I am On the shirt he bought for you last Christmas. Does he suckle your nipples? Hasn't he found your G spot yet after all these years? Your ass becomes a throw pillow in my face. Lay golden eggs of shit. We hear a car door closing. And jump from the JCPenny sheets. Your legs shut like a Venus flytrap. You hunt for jeans, As I search for shirt and shoes. He makes his way in as we take our rightful Place on the couch as consenting adults pretending nothing happened. It's not until the drive home, 20 minutes before you promise to call me That I never made you come And my underwear is still at your place but where?
To the top of this page