FFF - Gradient

 

Hostels are such a crap shoot. When I went to the front desk to book a bed, they only had a room which already had three people in it. But it was either that or sleep on the street, so I took it. "Be careful, they're already asleep." Yeah, that was on-brand for me; if they were asleep while the sun was still up, they'd probably be up at 3 am to do yoga or drink kombucha or some shit.

But when I quietly eased the door open, there they were in all their assortedly-tanned loveliness, three sets of blue eyes stared at me, and one of them murmured, in a delightful accent, "Oh good, a man to share." Things got very busy after that and I revised my opinion of hostels up a few notches.

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While walking up the strand
three lovelies hand in hand
got sun a bit more
than they bargained for
and came out unequally tanned.

It may have seemed unplanned,
and their bare flesh I eagerly fanned
to relieve all their hurts,
but I came on them spurts
of semen as hot as a brand.

From their room I've been totally banned,
As a poolboy been totally canned.
As they put it to me
"If your face we see
You will find yourself unmanned."

The rejection I can stand.
My performance they regularly panned.
But I'm trapped on this isle
and it might take a while
to swim back to the mainland.

So I sit here in the sand,
soothe my wounded ego, and,
because my mind's eye
can their asses still spy,
stroke my cock to beat the band.

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Two of one length this week because while I knew I wanted to write a poem (it's Max's fault for giving so many rhyming options) the other story I felt like writing didn't seem to need the length. Then I was just going to write a poem and to hell with the length requirement, but there were a few rhymes I hadn't used yet, so I used them and it wound up just meeting the shorter length requirement. I couldn't have kept it going to the longer one I'm afraid, even if I reused words, which I didn't want to do.

It's doggerel, not quite limericks but closer to that than anything else. I think I can be excused the deviations from form because they're in the service of a longer poetic form than a limerick. Also, "unplanned" is a different word than "planned" so you can't fault me for ignoring the forbidden words.

I kind of wanted to write something about how they're like a paint chip card, which is where the title came from, but the idea didn't go anywhere.

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On the subject of ideas which go places, pretend you're an idea and go to Max's blog where you'll find the assignment for the week. Then pretend that idea was better than my segue and write something for us. We want to read your paint-chip analogy, we really do.