(content warning) Blackpool Tryst

[heslopian]

I drummed my fingers on his hips
to put off what I knew would happen
in this rented room, by a beach
littered with working men and women
who flee, once a year,
to this pathetic fete of a town...

I finally stopped drumming and gripped,
roughly massaging his waist.
I kissed his neck. He moaned.
Acting? I found him on a stage, after all.
Or maybe he likes older men, and I,
40 to his 22, filled an ache
somewhere inside a fractured stone.

I started unbuckling his belt
and he leaned forward instinctively,
palms on the bedspread.
The soft, yielding pear of an anus,
breakfast to an ancient king,
made me sweat, and I felt like a pervert in a trench coat,
leading cherubs into darkness.
But still it would have happened, so I pushed my way inside
as gently as I could, responding to the tones of his voice.

A small part of me wondered what
was going on outside...
"a bird perches on a discarded carton of chips,
a woman links arms with a man she's just met,
and two lost children cry by a newsagent's stand".