If I could
make my living
sucking cocks

Pick & choose
what no whore
affords to do

I would
surely not
pick cocks
like bananas

Love bananas
when they’re black
the kind that ooze
from the open back
of pushcarts in Persia

Soft as kisses
sweet as sperm
when you eat them
they seem to squirm

Black cocks
love them too
though white ones
must so often do

If they’re strong
suitably long
& not too thick

Something worthy
to comfortably stick
up my tender ass

A stately cock
a cock with class

Sold myself once
black cock in China
flat broke & whistling
sidewalks of Kowloon

Poems in my mind
trying to find
paper to write on

Thick night air
swollen with neon
touting MASSAGE

Sleek black stud
asks for a rubdown
twenty bucks to soothe
his gay GI blues

One word more
I’d blow him for free
fluffy big bed
black stud & me

First sex scam
hair on my balls
speckled with grey

What can I say?
Mouth wide open
I go for the ride

Park Hotel
black cock
white sheets
hot sperm

Free shower
cash to burn
next day
my turn to pay

If I could
make my living
selling bananas…


The poem “Bananas” is a true story. I was flat broke in Hong Kong, strolling along Kowloon‘s Nathan Road vaguely wondering how to pay my rent. But also thinking poems. Suddenly this stunning black GI on R&R from Vietnam stops me and asks where he can get a massage. There are big neon signs everywhere blaring MASSAGE. No, that’s not what he wants. But maybe if I could…? The rest of what went down, including me on him, is poetical history. Next night an English guy picks me up (this is not in the poem); and after we’re done doing what we do in his room, his bed, says: “The moment I saw you I knew you were queer.” “How perceptive of you,” I reply. “I didn’t know until last night.”

Wrote the poem years later, in London. When I was again mainly straight. And whilst recalling the sweet black bananas I used to eat in Tehran. As well as a young Chinese Malaysian cock I’d once sucked in Bangkok but which turned me off. Because it was shaped like a banana. “Don’t fall in love with me,” I said as I undressed him. But he went ahead and did just that. Oh, and apparently his aunt, with whom he lived and who’d met me one time, told him before he came to visit that he’d best take some vaseline along!

Later still, in Amsterdam, at the Happy Hooker Xaviera Hollander‘s house, I met Yaron Ben-Nun. Former jet fighter pilot in the Israeli air force and now a documentary filmmaker. He was making a flick about Shai Shahar, professional gigolo turned cabaret artist. Recited “Bananas” for him and he loved it. Enough to adapt it as a short film. EW