Julian Mendez Perea
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Claude said he had a problem with his dick.
“It’s too big,” he confessed. “It makes me feel
like I’m some sort of freak. I showed this chick
at summer camp and all she did was squeal,
then run away.” I asked if he’d show me.
No answer—…Though we’d switched our flashlights off,
the moon was full and bright—and I could see
concealed inside his sleeping bag the soft
yet steady movement of his arm, and knew
that he was playing with himself like me.
“There’s one good thing, though— one thing I can do
that you can’t.” Pressured, he would not agree
to show me till the moon had slipped behind
a cloud—to seal our vow of secrecy.
Yet not much later that same moon enshrined
the image of his cock in memory.
In shadow, he’d exposed himself before
I’d caught a glimpse of his enormous size;
with little effort he’d soon swallowed four
of twelve hard inches—head between his thighs.
In shadow, he’d begun to moan and groan
head bouncing to the rhythm of his hips,
an urgent rhythm I soon made my own—
my hand, in shadow, mimicking his lips.
But without warning, overhead, the cloud
that veiled the moon withdrew just as we came—
his hidden cock exploding in his mouth,
mine spitting on my belly without shame.
That moonlight might have shocked him. But instead,
still out of breath, still dazed and dripping sweat,
he raised his head and leaned back, legs still spread.
That passing portrait’s one I’ll not forget—
that image of Claude sitting on his bunk,
his massive cockhead glistening, dripping spunk.
More clouds rolled in to block my moonlit view,
and we were bunked and bagged before too long.
“Maybe sometime you’d let me suck it—for you—?”
But he refused. He said that it was wrong.
after the Reverend Boyd McDonald’s
“Straight To Hell: True Homosexual Experiences”