Sex, Kink, and the Erotic: Three Poems by Brian Leung

Limited Engagement, 1997 

184 miles on a full tank, snow on the ground, muddied as third act makeup, seventy miles an hour,  headlight out, books at my side like wallflowers, big rigs in the mirror, and when I’m fucking,  when he’s finally under me, tattoos up close, slick with lube and pre-cum, ARE YOU  SUFFERING FROM A PAST ABORTION?—331-6089, certainly not, survived my birth intact,  dick-ready, harnessed to plow, now I’ve got it, know-how, timing my bowels in case he’s on top,  dressed down for that kind of guy, a dude, Xmarine34 on the Internet, “like to get rimmed, have  my armpits worked with a hot mouth. Not into kissing, HIV status? That’s a city thing. This is  fucking Indiana.” but thank God I depilatorized, makes me feel younger, abs and balls smoothed,  three cardinals, blood drops on the wire fence, different ( )ville, do my set, shower, and does  anyone care if that pony doesn’t like the freezing cold, pencil-wide peepholes, no one to watch,  that’s okay, action’s down the road, twilight, Loch Ness Monster heaping up in sky-pink snow,  curtain up on remodeling, sawdust in the purple dining room, purple, purple, purple as the bruise  I touch for pleasure, five-foot Iguana, brown eye regarding me like a trick after the trick, framed  Ritts stacked off the wall—all the greased boys, Russian nutcrackers, takes off his shirt, cut body  just like the .jpg from E-mail, Playboy Bunny—left pec, black panther–left shoulder, and pleased  there’s room for more, suck his dick, tongue his ass, I taste footprints there, get some for myself,  African masks, he’s ready, fuck, yes, trade off not staying hard, n fucking condoms x 2, back to  basics, the tongue, the anus, oh, dude, I’m cumming, starfish, conch, jerkied sting ray, netting,  shower, douche rod, Stick this up your ass and you’ll get real clean, half blue man, half blue horse,  half blue bird, what’s that tattoo?Pegasus, dude, out the door, never-had-sex neighbor wants to  know if he’s home, uh, yeah and I’m punching through hollow snow, mile marker 184.

Six Lines Without Intercourse 

Fall—five o’clock shadow blues smoky
            breath and stubbled fields 

            Hawks watch beside denim ponds where butterflies outnumber leaves 

You hum James Baldwin and I wish a 
                              caress from his songs

The Sausage Links and Chicken Hung  

after Matthew Dickman  

[.] You made the rules— 

Each time I utter “fuck” you think of the most disgusting acts, this disgusting gay life since I was  18 in a theater program when I fucked Jax during my run as Edmund Pevensie in the musical  version of The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, since the days when I had no-other-option  fucks in the back seat of my first car, fucks in the front seat too, fucks on the slick hood of that  very accommodating canary yellow 1978 Toyota Corolla, mmm, A Chinese-American fucker  fucking in the closed-on-Sundays subway station beneath the Twin Towers a decade before they  fell [so now I suppose you’ll blame me for that], fucking against a fogged pillar under the  Transamerica pyramid in San Francisco, fucking in the waxy red hallway of a Manhattan club in  the Meatpacking district before it gentrified—Fuck the High Line—Fucking in a treehouse  nineteen years after I built it in elementary school with my neighbor, Susan, whom I never  fucked. Minor porn stars, fucking boyfriends, fucking in twos and threes and too dark to count.  Fucking in a wheelbarrow, and let me tell you it’s true that except for the white chickens— so much depends  


a red wheel  


glazed with— 

Fucking on the granite patio where my naked thigh smashed a lover’s eyeglasses, fucking despite  AIDS,  

One fuck  

Two fuck  

Red fuck  

Blue fuck  

Fucking until I got a little bit older and things died down, fucks dwindling, fucks sighing, fucks  wheezing, fuck, fuck, fuck— 

And then invention, and then the internet, and then fuck ramping, and then fuck typing, and then  fucks everywhere, and then second life, and then all aboard— 

But now a party— And so I meet him, and now I love him, and so I ask him, and now it’s yes,  and so we marry, and so you win. You win. I am converted. But no. But no. It’s all disgusting.  We’re disgusting. I say you won. You won. What more do you want you want? I’ll be  disgusting with the same man for the rest of my life— 

An incantation. Repeat after me— 

            Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Like cluck, cluck, cluck.  

Now we’ve fucked—No harm came to you—I know you’re curious how one fucks in a  wheelbarrow—Call me for advice, but don’t ask about adding the white chickens—That’s  disgusting [.] 

About Brian Leung

Brian Leung, author of Ivy vs. Dogg: With a Cast of Thousands, Lost Men, and Take Me Home. Among other honors, he is a past recipient of the Lambda Literary Outstanding Mid-Career Prize. Brian’s fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry  appear in numerous magazines and journals.  He is a Professor of Creative Writing at Purdue University. His forthcoming novel, What a Mother Won’t Do (C&R Press) will be released in fall 2021.