gospel

14 Thursday Dec 2017

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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anal sex, blow job, drenching, facial, fellatio, gospel, prayer

I like you best with your face dripping cum.
It’s my form of prayer to you. A godhead

splitting your ass, ruining your rectum
until I roll you over on the bed

and you taste your own tart-funk on my cock
as it fills your throat. There’s nothing soothing

about prayer, just the sudden thrill and shock
when I pull out, my orgasm drenching

your cheeks, nose, eyelashes. If seminal
solutions are sacred then my temple

is your ass. Piercing it is like glory,
something sacred and cum proof of faithful

worship. Balls deep in you is like gospel.
Heathen, once more you and I are holy.

bastard’s freak

18 Saturday Nov 2017

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Arse's trickster, bastard's freak, blow job, erotic poetry, fellatio, Lather maker, Rude root, sonnet

Arse’s trickster; Lather maker; Rude root.
You say cocks are symbols of devotion,

godhood, rebirth; like you’re the first to put
the “erection” back in resurrection.

Knacker bone; Billy-me-nag; Love’s horsewhip.
First strip away myths, all the begetting,

its use as a weapon, male ego; strip
it bare and what’s there? 8-inches … pulsing.

Leather stretcher; Jockey’s pride; Bastard’s freak.
Some days I can say, “Brother, your beauty

haunts me.” Give me those days without bullshit
crafted to glory in this queer physique —

days where I can leave your face soaked, splotchy,
cum-streaked, where you hold out your palm and spit.

like fog three fingers

17 Tuesday Oct 2017

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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bindi, call me Aunty, erotic poetry, fellatio, gloom of the soul, London, sonnet, three fingers, wet like fog

First came morning London fog, thickening
curtains beyond the door that your husband

just left from. Then a curious rapping
at your kitchen door. In all of England:

you, from Mumbai, I, an exchange student,
became neighbors. You giggled (thirteen-years

older than me, ex-doctor, now pregnant
housewife) then let me in. Rejection, fear,

isolation — the gloom of the soul — stirs
queer sides in us all. “You’ll call me Aunty,”

you said, rising from your knees, your boredom
gone, your grin gone wet like fog, three fingers

running across your cheek, nose, the bindi
moon on your forehead, all splattered with cum.

silent octane

23 Tuesday Sep 2014

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy in Poetry, sonnet

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fellatio, iron booties, knits from your pubes, little fish, lo-speed, poem, Poetry, silent octane, skyclad, sonnet

Little fish, we grew up, I no longer
fit in your mouth on the first drop lo-speed

quivered pillowed my head to the center
a dot obscene puffing sea smoke like weed

burning a girl surfer’s kingdom skyclad
in the call coiled blood delight chilled down rain

pray a storm little fish little comrade
I miss your lips swollen silent octane

burning so much burns roots, harbors, black kelp
plucked, knits from your pubes. It’s darn criminal

the way you’ve let yourself go I’m slogging
into iron booties, chains, weights to drop

through the depths to you. Hold me kiss my skull
swallow me you used to without gagging.

blowjobs to stangers

28 Monday Oct 2013

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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anonymous sex, blowjob, contralto, erotic rebel, fellatio, gloryhole, homophobia, it is complex, orgasm, poem, Poetry, shiv, sonnet, sucka mc

Strange. There’s a small army of us who give
blowjobs to strangers. Like Sucka MCs

or a ten year old with a homemade shiv,
you can’t tell just by looking as we breeze

by you on the street, in your office, out
on the playground. All our worlds are complex,

and so are we. Maybe on a stakeout
at a gloryhole, bathrooms and blind sex,

then you’ll tell—-when you hit a contralto,
like in movies—-each time you orgasm.

A tad crude, but to the point. Then you’ll tell
who is who. All us boys and girls who know

your taste and laugh at you because you cum
and call yourself an erotic rebel.

pig roast

23 Wednesday Oct 2013

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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anal sex, bisexuality, blow job, erotic, fellatio, homophobia, MMF, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the problem with straight men, threesome

What was awkward wasn’t the need, wasn’t
just the will, it was the way that the straight

guy made it clear that he had consented
to this only to fuck your wife. The eight

shots of vodka that the three of you split
should have loosened things up, but no. You both

take a place beside her. He will submit
to her deep throating him down. But he loathes

the thought that he might be forced to kiss you.
Perhaps she’s watched too much porn. Perhaps she’s

blind to the clues. But with your cock in her
mouth and his in her ass she grins at you

both with joy. This is what she wants: boy grease,
cum, sperm, pig roast with two men, two lovers.

overshot

25 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry

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age difference, art, blow job, erotic, fellatio, mature-young, milf, poem, Poetry

once I overshot from the drunk
that she siphoned off pleasure
from base to tip perhaps
she just liked the word dunce
as if all her students weren’t
young and dumb and full
of cum I sucked her lime
sodden lips tasting queer
tequila, salty, on her rim
and too young to know
what the hell did she
just put in her mouth