The years have passed; time has rusted
The passion that used to be fierce then;
And time is such that it turns into needles
The most valiant cocks of men.
When we first began to lust,
The erections were on call;
And eager to rub against any mound,
Or infiltrate any moist hall.
I vouch it’s the same with other men
And the same with the ones I love;
And, yes, I have sweated in that heat
And swum with the stars above.
Though time again is such that
Instead of using flesh freely given,
We would rather towards porn
Be ultimately driven.
You would rather – as sure would I –
Prefer to lust and jerk with some other guy,
Who fucks on the telly or the comp,
And make believe ourselves in the romp.
Or worse perhaps reminisce
Of some succulent arse you saw somewhere,
While you chafe your member,
Until it jettisons into vacant air.
Then Mothers call and family upholds
The idea that sons are sexless and pure,
And orgasms are only for married men
While the wives must the thrusts endure.
Though I am more than willing to take
Your dick in my asshole,
Mother waits and, of course, time knows
That orgasms are not love’s ultimate goal.
Love would rather bring in chaste feelings,
Cock-teasing words and hasty caresses,
And eventually there won’t be a need to remove
Those ironed pants and velvet dresses.
If I present my back to you
And you realize what I am after,
You take the support of love,
And use some old forgotten laughter.
Of course, I resent time, thread my fingers in yours,
Kiss and lick and valiantly try again,
But you have jerked off with Stryker
And my inadequate body tries in vain.
Then mother and the time of the bus
Homeward bound seems to be calling,
And you hurriedly dress up,
While my lust undergoes a massive overhauling.
I smile, though unsatisfied, and let you go,
I know I’ve the opposite of you: blond Frank Towers,
Waiting in my comp to keep me imagining
And content for the next sexless hours.