No title for this one -- it's a spinoff from an old blog entry.
It's about looking for porn and finding something else.
Gingerly, where he found it,
but it was something else,
the thing that could make no sense.
They said it would be there,
thrillingly, to thumb and visit again and again,
the fuel of fervid dreams.
His boy classmates told him so.
It will be covert, but it will be there.
So one cloudy day he snuck into the room,
Cased the dresser,
container of cloth and the quotidian,
repository, hopefully, of the humid.
The shaky fingers, eager for touch.
The knobs, rubbed of their polish.
The wooden swish of the drawer as it slid.
The underwear, bunched like white blossoms.
And there, underneath, the unglossy surprise:
flesh upon flesh, limbs in a twist,
stiffening muscle, sinew and skin,
the spasm, the cries, the moan, the twitch.
The boy traces his unknowing
thumb on the amber surface;
the secrets of old men in muddy weather.