Spank Bank

Blessed be the men who never signed the lease

yet own the darkest wing of my imagination.

To the barista with the forearms dusted in gold

who hands me my coffee like he’s passing me contraband desire;

to the colleague leaning back in his chair,

shirt pulling tight across the chest I have already

unbuttoned a thousand times in my head;

to the neighbor towing groceries up the stairs,

sweat mapping the small of his back

in a language I read fluently with my eyes closed.

I have archived you all

in the velvet vault no confession can open.

Your throats when you swallow,

the soft hair at your nape when the barber’s clippers pause,

the way your thighs shift under denim

when you laugh at something you weren’t supposed to find funny—

I stole every frame, slow-motion, 4K,

and filed it where the blood runs hottest

and the sheets never need washing.

To the stranger on the morning train

whose knee pressed mine for three illicit stops,

electric, deliberate, then gone—

you are enshrined here,

cock half-hard in memory’s permanent present,

forever on the verge of asking me my name.

To the actor whose mouth I have tasted

through a screen thick with other people’s longing,

to the singer whose low growl once slid down my spine

and pooled heavy between my legs—

you were never safe from me.

Your close-ups were foreplay gifted to the world;

I only finished what the camera started.

This is not confession.

This is liturgy.

Every man who ever lit me up

without permission

deserves his private resurrection

in the chapel of my fist.

I keep you younger, harder, wetter

than daylight ever allowed—

throats open, backs arched,

mouths greedy for more than words.

Here you never cum too soon.

Here you never look away.

Here you say my name like prayer

and mean it.

So here’s to the tenants

of that back-room cathedral

where guilt forgot the combination.

You will never soften, never leave,

never ask me to dinner

or ruin the fantasy with morning breath.

Some paid in a glance across the gym mirrors,

some in the accidental brush of hips in a crowded bar,

some in the low rasp of “excuse me”

when we both reached for the same weight.

Rent is eternal.

Interest is measured in pulses

and the hush just before release.

Thank you

for never knowing

how thoroughly you are worshipped

how completely you are fucked

how faithfully you are kept

in the holiest, filthiest corner

of my queer and hungry mind.