"BOY"
Twelve Variations on a Favourite Theme
1
Boy.
My favourite word!
Boy.
Cheeky, cute,
coltish,
coy.
Boy.
Blue-eyed? brown-eyed?
upturned nose -
a freckle or two?
Slim wrists, slender hands,
narrow waist,
bubble-butt.
Boy.
Hidden treasures
behind your fly.
Long legs, never still,
feet kicking nonchalantly.
Boy,
I love that word!
2
Unruly hair,
wide blue eyes,
impossibly long lashes,
a pale face,
your energy going into growing.
Cupid-bow lips,
a smooth, soft jawline,
slim neck,
a hint of Adam's apple
and the soft inviting hollow
at your throat
where collarbones meet.
Impossibly narrow waist,
flat abdomen and, below
the burgeoning rod of your gender.
And with slim fingers
you are just beginning to enjoy
what makes you a boy.
3
You were on the beach,
I watched you for hours
from the corner of my eye.
Bleached blond hair,
brighter than the sun
which beat down
upon your honeyed body
dusted with golden sand.
Thin arms, a faint covering
of white-gold hairs
invisible almost,
except when you ran from the sea,
laughing and smiling,
the droplets raining from you.
White teeth in your sunbrowned face
as you called to your friend
who, to me, seemed just as in awe of you as I.
My rival! Yet there was no contest,
I could see that,
in the way you and he acted together.
Still the sun shone down,
drying your tight red Speedos
which, wetly clinging,
half-hid, half-revealed
your budding boyhood,
a magnet for his eyes...
and mine.
Castles in the sand,
Intense concentration
interrupted by sudden spurts of energy,
darting round the beach,
jumping, tripping, wrestling.
I saw your friend
as he surrendered to you,
lying between your legs,
pinioned to the hot sand.
His voice said "Let me go!"
His eyes said "Stay!"
A quick whisper
an intimate look,
as I feigned sleep
and through half-closed eyes watched
as you and he exchanged a lightning-quick kiss.
How I wish it were I who had been your prisoner
on that beach!
Then up again and running.
Laughing and shouting,
your lives ahead of you.
Out of sight
yet not out of mind...
happy times!
The beach is empty now
and on the iron-grey sea,
the rain falls
in windswept weeping curtains.
The vision of you long gone.
And I remain, alone.
Where are you now, my golden boy?
4
Do you mind me looking at you?
No, I thought not!
You quite like it, don't you,
the attention you get?
You're not sure why,
but you seem to enjoy
my eyes roaming your slim young frame.
And when they rest on a certain place,
I catch you blushing so prettily!
Your own hand goes there, unthinking?
You brush the place
which I long myself to touch.
Your eyes meet mine
and, cheeky boy! You lick your lips!
Just a quick darting of your pink tongue
over the roseate bow of pretty mouth.
Daring me to look again, your eyes flash
and hold my gaze.
I crumble and avert my eyes.
You grin, triumphant.
Turning, you walk away.
And I?
Another victim fallen under your spell.
5
You walk into the room
from the winter's cold.
(The rest of the class doesn't even look up.)
Woollen hat, parka and ski-pants
powdered with snow.
You slowly remove your outer garments,
holding my eyes with a steady gaze.
And underneath, oh joy!
You are completely, wonderfully naked,
brazenly, proudly, gloriously hard!
(The rest of the class works on, unconcerned)
My eyes devour your perfect form
and I stiffen as I sit.
You smile and walk towards me
and, leaning down you kiss me on the lips,
tongues wrestle, warm and moist,
your breath hot upon my cheek.
I reach to grasp your boyhood's pride...
It's always then that I wake,
stickily wet.
6
Summer or winter,
it makes no difference,
skimpy teeshirt hugs you tight,
accenting the nubs of your nipples
pointed beneath the stretched white cotton.
Summer or winter,
your teeshirt always free of waistband,
you never seem to notice the cold.
Glimpse of tanned, flat abdomen, then
riding above your trousers,
the elasticated band of your boxers,
white, grey, multicoloured,
always a treat!
Riding on your slim hips,
jeans, where often
(artifice or accident?)
the zipper's half-down.
And there behind,
(I've watched you develop over the years!)
your hidden boyhood,
tightly encased,
a beautiful protrusion,
boyhood's flesh stretching sideways,
while beneath,
a tantalising handful!
The stuff that
wet dreams are made of.
7
You don't know it
but you turn me on.
Do you know
how hot you are?
Maybe you do!
Maybe that's why
you smile at me,
staying behind
after the others have gone.
A few words,
another shy smile,
a lingering
as if you don't want to leave.
I may not speak
and tell you what I feel.
You don't know?
Even if you do,
I cannot act.
You know, don't you?
You really turn me on!
8
It happens every single time,
when a special boy comes into my life.
I get to know him,
I fall in love.
Angst-ridden, I suffer.
Frustrated, despairing.
I look, but must not touch.
He likes me, I like to think.
But that's all it is,
maybe not even that,
no use kidding myself.
We chat, share a joke or two –
but he mustn't know
what my true feelings are.
Then, without warning
he's gone.
And I'm alone again,
and again ...
and again.
It happens every single fucking time.
9
Fridays at four.
That was our time.
For the whole week
I focused on that one short hour,
when it was just you and me.
Now you've gone.
The weeks stretch
into bleak, monotonous eternity.
10
Now that you've gone,
I feel strangely relieved.
No more endless days
of waiting til I see you again.
Obsession, once my constant companion,
becomes mere memory.
Now I can get on with my life,
not worrying about how
or whether or why.
The sharp pain of then
is now a dull ache
and maybe soon forgotten.
Though I still drive past your house
as often as I can.
11
Benedictus est
Blessèd indeed!
Emerging from boyhood,
nearly a youth.
Exquisitely formed,
delightfully cheeky!
I love your smile,
captivatingly angelic,
touching my heart.
12
You're right there in front of me.
If I stretched out my hand
I could stroke your silken hair,
run my hand over your smooth cheek
caress your rosy lips with my fingers.
I could run my hand down, over your chest
stroke your tummy,
make you giggle and squirm
until I reach my goal;
when, all at once you're still,
eyes fixing mine,
shallow breaths, flushed face,
as my fingers trace the outline of your boyhood,
which, as I feel, hardens.
You lean towards me,
eyes glisten, tongue licks dry lips.
Hot breath on my cheek as my fingers knead your hardness.
I move my hand away only to have you
push it back where it was, urging me on.
I feel your agony as I push against you,
ragged breathing, low purring moans
become louder, as pulling my face to yours
you mash your lips against mine.
Your hand directs my movements, harder, faster,
until with a cry of relief, I feel the throbs
beneath my hand and the wet patch
soaking through your jeans.
Silence.
A look.
A kiss...
And then you do the same for me.
"That was a good lesson!
Same time next week."
This small anthology of poems is © 2009 Jack Kendle, to whom comments may be sent.
