Spectator Sport

This is a brand new poem that I wrote after coming home from The Roar's big finale this past Saturday. I'm not sure how I feel about it in it's present form and I may yet go back and do some revisions to it. I was considering writing a part 2 to this piece in which the speaker admits that the only real reason he knows lovers need time to concentrate during road head is because there was a time when he himself received road head and was told that he was the worst participant in such an act. The punchline: being told that he was the worst when it came to road head made for an experience that was easily the worst thirty bucks he ever spent. I may yet write such a poem just because it makes me chuckle to think about a hooker telling her client that he sucks at receiving road head because how the fuck does a guy receive oral sex wrong? That's just plain bad sexpertise. I can't believe I just used the word 'sexpertise' without killing myself immediately afterward. Anyway, enjoy "Spectator Sport"

Spectator Sport
In the car ahead of me the
girl in the passenger seat
administers head to the driver.

I can tell

because she repeatedly comes up for air
before dutifully going back to work. And

I can't help but feel bad for the
poor girl

because I've been tailing
this car for quite a long time now and
still she works.

It's either a testament to her level of
dedication and
attention to detail or
it's a testament to the driver's
longevity with the hard cock, his
unwillingness to erupt.

I can tell

because I've been tailing
this car for quite a long time now and
still she works.

At the next red light we reach
I'm debating

getting out of my car and
running up beside theirs to
cheer her on,
yell at her words of encouragement
through a closed driver's-side window,

maybe tell her to breathe through her nose more,
stop coming up for air
because she'll never get the job done like that,

maybe start singing something sexy to
get the driver in the mood to splooge,
except that I'm almost dead certain
my appearance at his side
while receiving a

front-seat hummer, a
Honda Civic civil blowjob, a
suck-job in a sedan,

would kill any erection, and
consequently
make her work
that much more difficult.

Moments that I wish my
car horn played Marvin Gaye or
Curtis Mayfield,
hell, even any sort of peeler theme
over a soundscape of porn starlet moans,

something,

anything,

to put the exclamation point on an
erotic arc and
save that poor girl's time, neck, and jaw.

If the light turns green and the
car is yet to move
I won't rush them,

won't interupt them

because sometimes lovers just need to concentrate,
lose sight of an outside world
long enough

to find a rhythm that works.

-Michael Appleby
September, 2006