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Study of a Model in Calvin Klein JeansTo Shane Allison's previous piece     CruisingTo 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?

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