Mr Right

I used to think that Mister Right
was a well-built buck
with perfect skin,
hands blushed as they grip
a riding crop,
lip sneered in disdain.

but as I've grown I've learned
that cruelty breeds wanting cruelty...

and there were lots of us.
boys who wanted to be hurt by men
just like they'd been by fathers,
brothers, even friends, interpreting their hate
as love, and thinking that's
what's needed to be loved.

sometimes I don't allow myself to think
how many gay boys have been lost
in slaughterhouses labelled love and sex,
hurt and killed by predators
encircling their frail, masochistic forms.

sometimes I think that I was only saved
because I didn't value my body enough
to give it as a gift
and then let it be destroyed.
led along the grid, stripped,
hung up, and stuck.

these days Mr Right
is someone else entirely.
a little creased and peppery.
a man whose hands are gruff
but manner soft.
he wears a knitted jumper
and while he might not look like much
to anyone else
he looks amazing in my view,
bum perfect in everything he wears,
the best bits of a man
exemplified in him,
so that the fun bits are
more exciting than a rollercoaster.

best of all I'm in his arms.
he's warm as well as tight,
soothing as a thick mattress
but better made
to quell my loneliness.