Sunday, 31 December 2017

Grinding Poetry: queer men and hookup apps (& websites)

In this blog we want to collect poems (and short prose pieces) written by gay men in reaction to hookup apps (and websites), the likes of Grindr, Scruff, Daddyhunt, GuySpy, GROWLr, Mister X, Hornet, Randy, Gaydar, GayRomeo, Buttheads, Manhunt, Gay.com... and any other app or site that you know but I may have missed. 

Multimedia material (e.g. visual art, sound, ...) is also welcome . 

If you have any piece on the topic, would you like to share it with us? If you don't, would you like to write one and contribute it to this website? 

To submit a piece, email: ernesto@sarezale.com

Copyright of each piece remains with its author.

These are the contributions so far: 

Look forward to your submissions!

Wednesday, 11 January 2017

GRINDR: A PROSE POEM by Ernesto Sarezale

He put me off when he wrote: “You are a great guy. But you shouldn’t use the headphones you have on your pic.” “Why?” “Because they’re pink!” I almost blocked him. But I counted to 10. Such hot guy would not normally want to hook up with me. I typed in a hurry “if you don’t want to meet…” He replied in an dash: “I do want to meet”. And we met. But it was not easy. First he said he could not accommodate. I typed: “I can’t at my flat ‘cause I live with my parents. If we meet, we have to have sex on a couch at my uncle’s unfurnished flat.” So he soon changed his tune and he said he could host. When I got to his place, he was shifty: “You know, my flat was untidy.” But that’s not the only thing that annoyed me about him. Half way through, when he was about to give me a blow-job, he stopped and he asked: “Are you clean?” I wondered when was the last time I had had a shower. Did my willy smell? He explained: “Are you tested?” I got what he meant. “Yes,” I said. Which is true. It was six months ago. But I didn’t tell him when because he didn’t ask. I almost lost my erection. Gladly, his sucking was ace. I was soon stiff and ready. When I came, he came shortly after me. And he annoyed me again. He sprawled on his bed, breathing deep. “I feel so relaxed,” he said without looking at me, “it feels so good!”. He overdid it, rapt in his own satisfaction, he was almost falling asleep. So thoughtless.


PAUSE.

It was sweet, must be said, that he never compelled me to remove my shirt. He said nothing  the moment his hands touched the body-shaping vest I was wearing beneath. I had put on weight over Christmas and was feeling self-conscious about the width of my waist. It’s good that he did not see me with my top off because body-shapers are made for white people and look very awkward on my dark skin tone. It would have been hard to get rid of that corset anyway. He was happy to simply strip me off my pants. He wasn’t all bad. I loved how he stroked my face stubble with his thumb. And when I asked him, post-coitus, “what’s that thing over there?” he stretched and jumped out of bed. He showed me with pride an award he had won as a student back home. He looked back at me. He got close. He crouched and kissed my soft cock. I warned him: “It will get hard again…” “That’s OK,” he replied. And I was reminded of how, earlier on, in the thralls of passion, when almost against my will I shouted “Daddy!”, he looked at my eyes, put his ear on my chest and said: “Your heartbeat sounds just like the overture of Rigoletto”.  

Sunday, 8 January 2017

WINDOWS by Serge Neptune

A trill rises from the murky pits of my computer’s audio system, 
with the same indiscretion through which trees tickle a scorned window. 
The trill is familiar, heard it lots of times, once turned my head, 
Planetromeo’s blue website winks at me, cheeky.
I took as a sign the two times I tried to install Grindr in my phone, 
the app crashing both times, therefore never really used it.
Planetromeo doesn’t crash. Planetromeo is an old faithful friend.
The pc window whistles out another window which whistles out 
your message, an intriguing summary of our first meeting. 
Your ass has made a very good first impression.
Few things count more than a good first impression.
We decide to meet and I pour myself in the cold streets,
Mouth steaming, heading to your studio flat in Hackney.
Upon discovering I would mark you, that my jaws
were thirsty for bruising, my lips willing to suckle and scathe 
you showcased delight on your face 
like an expensive watch from a Selfridges’ display.
We undress each other in a rush, the rush mellows.
You hold my head still, implore my lips to stop,
Cause you might come already.
Turning me over you push me down, my nose sinking 
in the pillow, my nostrils filled with linen, ignoring the stink of ratpiss.
You lift my snow-white bum cheeks, 
Face my narrow opening which mirrors the loneliness of both.
Not long after we start, I beg you to dig deeper 
and harder and faster inside me
Yet what I really mean is I would like you
to hold me tight and kiss me sweetly and never let me go,
but I don’t translate feelings well, they are a language
I’ve never really learnt to speak.
We grow incandescent, and once you let your river 
flow down to the wrinkles of my navel, we grow apart.
You came three times in a row and I didn’t even notice.

On my way out, I melt with the fog, I fold one of my sleeves
In a naughty shape. The Overground’s card reader beeps me welcome.
Somehow, a weird feeling remains, 
All the windows I encounter looking down at me
Are dressed up in a smirk.

Monday, 2 January 2017

MASC-U-RIM-ITY by Stephen Jackson

I didn't know quite what to expect.
I've imagined how I'd hoped it would be
but with pornography as inspiration 
my imagination may have spiralled into absurdity. 
Reality somehow retains originality.
I certainly was not expecting coffee and cake with a stranger.
I was expecting all strangers to be on time. Some never turned up.
Two were punctual, excluding myself, one was hosting and the other I'd met before.
A soldier.
But he didn't recognise me at first.
I'd grown a beard since.
I consciously ignored any awkwardness as I undressed.
With my face between his cheeks
my tongue reacquainted itself with his pleasure and my dick inside him, 
a handshake of sorts,
familiarity returned.
But in a strangers bed.
Who didn't wait for us to cum.
He wiped himself down, sprung off the bed and nonchalantly packed his gym bag.
He said we could continue somewhere else.
This was no time for a commercial break.
On the street, I felt confused
the soldier evaporated into the lazy summer Sunday afternoon.
The stranger who arrived late caught my attention and we recounted the details over cake and coffee.
My beard needed a wash.
I could wipe away cake crumbs with a napkin but it retained a particular scent. 
Not sugar and spice and all things nice 
nor whatever little boys are made of.
This smell is what men are made of:
a mature, intimate, addictive fragrance.
He went to meet his friends 
and I went to the gym.
Opportunity buzzed in my pocket
as I approached the turnstiles.
And my phone guided me to Elephant & Castle.
His flat was a little too tidy for any lasting friendship to bloom between us. 
This was purely help to unload.
Pleasure was impatient under the weight of foreplay's frustration.
He was slight enough for me to flip him over with one hand. 
I pulled his hips towards my face and dived, tongue first into his inviting crack.
After ten minutes hearing noises they usually make, he pulled away and said, 
"I'm really sorry, I don't think we're connecting."
He slipped on his underwear 
and raised his eyebrows as the waistband snapped against his youthful hips.
Perhaps to break the silence as I dressed.
Back on the tube to the gym.
I could smell two guys asses in my beard.
It didn't occur to me that other passengers might too.
I could smell two distinct flavours of masculinity.
I don't think other passengers made the same oldfactory observation.
I thought I needed to wash my beard
but deadlifting behind the squat rack
my line of vision inhaled the natural rise and tightening of shorts
as he lowered himself to the floor and
I wondered if another lick of this oldfactory puzzle would help answer 'what smell makes a man?'