The BlueIris Semi-Nightly Poetry Break, 9/9/08 (extremely graphic language; NSFW, not safe for kids)

"Eighteen to Twenty-One"                    
                            
                                  I

He said his name was Nick; later I learned
he'd crossed the country on stolen credit 
cards—I found the receipts in the guest house
I rented for only three months.  Over
a period of two weeks, he threatened 
to tell my parents I was gay, blackmailed
me, tied me up, crawled through a window and
waited under my bed, and raped me at 
knifepoint without lubricant.  A neighbor
heard screams and called my parents, who arrived
with a loaded gun in my mother's purse.
But Nick was gone.  I moved back home, began
therapy, and learned that the burning in
my rectum was gonorrhea, not nerves.

                                   II

Our first date, Dick brought me dinner and played
"Moon River" (at my request) on his grand
piano.  Soon after that, he moved to 
San Diego, but drove up every week-
end to see me.  We'd sleep at his "uncle"'s
quaint cottage in Benedict Canyon—part
of Jean Harlow's old estate.  One night, Dick
spit out my cum in the bathroom sink; I
didn't ask why.  The next morning, over
steak and eggs at Dupar's, Dick asked me to
think about San Diego, said he'd put
me through school.  I liked him because he looked
like Sonny Bono, but sipped my coffee
and glanced away.  Still, Dick picked up the bill.

                                   III

More than anything, I wanted Charlie
to notice me.  I spent one summer in
and around his swimming pool, talking to
his roommates, Rudy and Ned.  All three of
them were from New York; I loved their stories
about the bars and the baths, Fire Island, docks
after dark.  I watched for Charlie, played board 
games with Rudy and Ned, crashed on the couch.
Occasionally, Charlie came home with-
out a trick and I slipped into his bed
and slept next to him.  Once, he rolled over
and kissed me—bourbon on his breath—and we
had sex at last.  I was disappointed,
though:  his dick was so small it didn't hurt.

                                  IV

I made a list in my blue notebook:  Nick,
Dick, Charlie, Kevin, Howard, Tom . . .  Kevin
had been the boyfriend of an overnight
girl I knew in high school.  I spotted him
at a birthday bash—on a yacht—for an
eccentric blonde "starlet" who called herself
Countess Kerushka.  Kevin and I left
together, ended up thrashing  around
on his waterbed while his mother, who'd
just had a breakdown, slept in the next room.
Howard was Kevin's best friend.  We went for
a drive one night, ended up parking.  His
lips felt like sandpaper, and I couldn't 
cum—but I added his name to the list.

                                   V

Tom used spit for lubricant and fucked me
on the floor of his Volkswagon van while
his ex-lover (also named Tom) drove and
watched (I was sure) in the rearview mirror.
Another of his exes, Geraldo, 
once corned me in Tom's bathroom, kissed me
and asked:  "What does he see in you?"  At a
gay students' potluck, I refilled my wine
glass and watched Tom flirt with several other
men in the room.  Outside, I paced, chain-smoked,
kicked a dent in his van and, when he came
looking for me, slugged him as hard as I
could.  It was the end of the affair, but
only the beginning of my drinking.

                                  VI

I ordered another wine cooler and
stared at his tight, white pants—the outline of
his cock hung halfway down his thigh.  After
a few more drinks, I asked him to dance to
"The First Time I Ever Saw Your Face."  He
pressed himself against me and wrapped his arms
around my neck.  I followed him to his
apartment, but once in bed, lost interest.
I told him I was hung up on someone.
As I got dressed he said, "If you love him,
you should go to him."  Instead, I drove back
to the bar, drank more, and picked up a blond
bodybuilder who, once we were in bed,
whispered "Give me your tongue"—which turned me off.

                                  VII

As one young guy screwed another young guy
on the screen, the man sitting a couple 
seats to my right—who'd been staring at me
for the longest time—slid over.  He stared
a little longer, the leaned against me
and held a bottle of poppers to my
nose.  When it wore off, he was rubbing my
crotch.  Slowly, he unzipped my pants, pulled back
my underwear, lowered his head, licked some
pre-cum from the tip of my dick, and then
went down on it.  As he sucked, he held the 
bottle up.  I took it, twisted the cap
off and sniffed, then looked up at the two guys 
on the screen, then up at the black ceiling.

—David Trinidad