W. H. Auden's homoerotic masterpiece

THE PLATONIC BLOW – W. H. AUDEN

It was a spring day, a day for a lay, when the air
Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown;
Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there
On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.

I glanced as I advanced. The clean white T-shirt outlined
A forceful torso, the light-blue denims divulged
Much. I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind,
I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.

Our eyes met. I felt sick. My knees turned weak.
I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to say.
In a blur I heard words, myself like a stranger speak
“Will you come to my room?” Then a husky voice, “O.K.”

I produced some beer and we talked. Like a little boy
He told me his story. Present address: next door.
Half Polish, half Irish. The youngest. From Illinois.
Profession: mechanic. Name: Bud. Age: twenty-four.

He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along
The back of my sofa. The afternoon sunlight struck
The blond hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong.
His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck.

And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart.
I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh.
His reply was to move closer. I trembled, my heart
Thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly.

I opened a gap in the flap. I went in there.
I sought for a slit in the gripper shorts that had charge
Of the basket I asked for. I came to warm flesh, then to hair.
I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large.

He responded to my fondling in a charming, disarming way:
Without a word he unbuckled his belt while I felt.
And lolled back, stretching his legs. His pants fell away.
Carefully drawing it out, I beheld what I held.

The circumcised head was a work of mastercraft
With perfectly beveled rim of unusual weight
And the friendliest red. Even relaxed, the shaft
Was of noble dimensions with the wrinkles that indicate

Singular powers of extension. For a second or two,
It lay there inert, then suddenly stirred in my hand,
Then paused as if frightened or doubtful of what to do.
And then with a violent jerk began to expand.

By soundless bounds it extended and distended, by quick
Great leaps it rose, it flushed, it rushed to its full size.
Nearly nine inches long and three inches thick,
A royal column, ineffably solemn and wise.

I tested its length and strength with a manual squeeze.
I bunched my fingers and twirled them about the knob.
I stroked it from top to bottom. I got on my knees.
I lowered my head. I opened my mouth for the job.

But he pushed me gently away. He bent down. He unlaced
His shoes. He removed his socks. Stood up. Shed
His pants altogether. Muscles in arms and waist
Rippled as he whipped his T-shirt over his head.

I scanned his tan, enjoyed the contrast of brown
Trunk against white shorts taut around small
Hips. With a dig and a wriggle he peeled them down.
I tore off my clothes. He faced me, smiling. I saw all.

The gorgeous organ stood stiffly and straightly out
With a slight flare upwards. At each beat of his heart it threw
An odd little nod my way. From the slot of the spout
Exuded a drop of transparent viscous goo.

The lair of hair was fair, the grove of a young man,
A tangle of curls and whorls, luxuriant but couth.
Except for a spur of golden hairs that fan
To the neat navel, the rest of the belly was smooth.

Well hung, slung from the fork of the muscular legs,
The firm vase of his sperm, like a bulging pear,
Cradling its handsome glands, two herculean eggs,
Swung as he came towards me, shameless, bare.

We aligned mouths. We entwined. All act was clutch,
All fact contact, the attack and the interlock
Of tongues, the charms of arms. I shook at the touch
Of his fresh flesh, I rocked at the shock of his cock.

Straddling my legs a little I inserted his divine
Person between and closed on it tight as I could.
The upright warmth of his belly lay all along mine.
Nude, glued together for a minute, we stood.

I stroked the lobes of his ears, the back of his head
And the broad shoulders. I took bold hold of the compact
Globes of his bottom. We tottered. He fell on the bed.
Lips parted, eyes closed, he lay there, ripe for the act.

Mad to be had, to be felt and smelled. My lips
Explored the adorable masculine tits. My eyes
Assessed the chest. I caressed the athletic hips
And the slim limbs. I approved the grooves of the thighs.

I hugged, I snuggled into an armpit. I sniffed
The subtle whiff of its tuft. I lapped up the taste
Of its hot hollow. My fingers began to drift
On a trek of inspection, a leisurely tour of the waist.

Downward in narrowing circles they playfully strayed.
Encroached on his privates like poachers, approached the prick,
But teasingly swerved, retreated from meeting. It betrayed
Its pleading need by a pretty imploring kick.

“Shall I rim you?” I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent.
Turned on his side and opened his legs, let me pass
To the dark parts behind. I kissed as I went
The great thick cord that ran back from his balls to his arse.

Prying the buttocks aside, I nosed my way in
Down the shaggy slopes. I came to the puckered goal.
It was quick to my licking. He pressed his crotch to my chin.
His thighs squirmed as my tongue wormed in his hole.

His sensations yearned for consummation. He untucked
His legs and lay panting, hot as a teen-age boy.
Naked, enlarged, charged, aching to get sucked,
Clawing the sheet, all his pores open to joy.

I inspected his erection. I surveyed his parts with a stare
From scrotum level. Sighting along the underside
Of his cock, I looked through the forest of pubic hair
To the range of the chest beyond rising lofty and wide.

I admired the texture, the delicate wrinkles and the neat
Sutures of the capacious bag. I adored the grace
Of the male genitalia. I raised the delicious meat
Up to my mouth, brought the face of its hard-on to my face.

Slipping my lips round the Byzantine dome of the head,
With the tip of my tongue I caressed the sensitive groove.
He thrilled to the trill. “That’s lovely!” he hoarsely said.
“Go on! Go on!” Very slowly I started to move.

Gently, intently, I slid to the massive base
Of his tower of power, paused there a moment down
In the warm moist thicket, then began to retrace
Inch by inch the smooth way to the throbbing crown.

Indwelling excitements swelled at delights to come
As I descended and ascended those thick distended walls.
I grasped his root between left forefinger and thumb
And with my right hand tickled his heavy voluminous balls.

I plunged with a rhythmical lunge steady and slow,
And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue.
His soul reeled in the feeling. He whimpered “Oh!”
As I tongued and squeezed and rolled and tickled and swung.

Then I pressed on the spot where the groin is joined to the cock,
Slipped a finger into his arse and massaged him from inside.
The secret sluices of his juices began to unlock.
He melted into what he felt. “O Jesus!” he cried.

Waves of immeasurable pleasure mounted his member in quick
Spasms. I lay still in the notch of his crotch, inhaling his sweat.
His ring convulsed round my finger. Into me, rich and thick,
His hot spunk spouted in gouts, spurted in jet after jet.

SOOOOOO, do I have anything to say about this masterpiece of homoeroticism? For that is what it is. It is simply beautiful in its graceful, yet blatant sexuality. No doubt having to hide for most of his life, it must have been luxurious for Auden to write it. It sounds like a fantasy, of course - he meets a young, stunningly gorgeous, totally anonymous, totally available young man for a one-time "tryst" (for the feeling is, even though he lives next door, this will happen only once and never again).

I have a history with this poem, strangely enough. When I used to visit my sister in Toronto (and yes, there was a time I would be in the same room with her), I was only about 15, and everyone else was about 15 years older. There were magazines lying around - not exactly dirty, no pictures, but literary porn disguised as "erotica". I knew of Auden from English class, and my favorite poem remains As I Walked Out one Evening (which I made a YouTube video of - I'll post it soon). But this - ! This was not only beautifully-written, but frankly dirty, if dirty means so blatantly sexual that it makes your jaw drop (so to speak). It stayed in my head, my impressionable young 15-year-old head, and just as I was exposed to dirty literature, I was also plied with drink, made very drunk, treated like a drunk little mascot, and groped and grabbed at by my sister's many boy friends, most of them married men in their 30s. One of them, I found out later, shot himself in the head. And I was expected to be grateful - as if it was some sort of special privilege to have this golden opportunity of sampling adult delights. To be "included". My parents knew all about these visits, by the way, and the parties, and even - shockingly - attended many of them themselves, boozing, shouting, not seeing or wanting to see.

But the Auden. After all the pawing and groping, I wasn't exactly innocent, even if I seemed to have a target painted on me somewhere. I knew about stuff like this, though it would have been better for me if I didn't. But even so, I wasn't used to such raw sexuality expressed in such masterful terms, which is why bits of it DID stick: "That's lovely", for some reason, and "an odd little nod". 

Years stream by! And more, and more. But it was still a long time ago that I thought of it again and googled it, and found that there WAS a poem called The Platonic Blow which had ONCE been ascribed to Auden, but it was a vicious lie, unkind and unfair, and OF COURSE he didn't write it! Case closed. But the poem was the same poem, I knew it. I sent a copy to a novelist friend of mine, and he answered, "Wow."

More years! Years and years. Then once again I thought of it, and fished it up again, and THIS time, yes, what do you know, Auden DID write it and even published it, underground and under a different name. But he wanted it in print, and no wonder. It's just so Auden-ish: "Shall I rim you?" he asks, in his best drawing-room English, as if asking, "Cream or lemon?" To me he always looked like a dried-out, vastly wrinkly professorial type, but apparently he hung out with Christopher Isherwood and "Benji" Britten (a closet queen whom Auden helped open the door), and was quite a wild thing in his youth. It's not true that homosexuality was universally damned until about 1973. In Paris, in the 1920s, it was quite the thing, and you did not even need to be "gay" to sample it. It was just another sexual adventure, a way to colour outside the lines. A man could relax into his gayness there.

If I had put any whisper of this on YouTube, I'd be banned for life, and I'm still not sure the Blog Monster won't just come and shut me down for publishing "p*rn". Things are so bad on YouTube now that you can't say "d*mn" or "h*ll", and all swears are now bleeped. It's very depressing.

But I'll post this, and if anyone is offended you can stop reading at any time. It's nice to know this "BUT AUDEN DIDN'T WRITE IT" garbage has died out. I've seen discussions where people vehemently, even violently protested any suggestion that their literary heroes were gay, as if it is the worst slander one can sling at someone. Maybe to some, it still is. 

But Auden was gay, quite flamboyantly gay, and he loved young men, and I too feel a stir at this description, because it doesn't matter how old you are, or how married you are. Men smell good, their voices are wonderful, and those hands, those eyes. And other parts.