A Wank In Blank Verse: A Poem

I like to watch my old friend masturbate,
Particularly if he’s unaware of being observed; 
(A tricky scenario to pull off).
Fortunately he likes to wank early in the morning
In the kitchen,
When he thinks I’m still asleep,
Which I’m not 
If I hear him get up.

He stands over the sink,
Looking out into the garden,
Wearing a tee-shirt and an old pair of pyjama pants;
Loose and lived-in, you know.
He never bothers checking to see if he’s alone,
Which is just as well.
Does he know I’m there watching?
Maybe. I like to think so.

It always starts with his hand 
Disappearing into the open flap off his pyjamas,
Fondling himself happily,
As do I in my boxers,
(Which I put on just in case I’m discovered).
That’s never happened mind you,
Which I think is unfortunate.
But then again, it might spoil the game.

I wait and watch in the shadows of morning,
The door slightly ajar,
Barely daring to breath, 
His hand slowly moving just out of sight.
My cock is already sticking out,
Insistent and flagrant.
Its night-funk smell reaches my nostrils
As I pull back the foreskin.
Does he smell it too,
Even from this distance?
Or does his own stink overcome mine?

By this time I know his rhythm,
The schedule of things.
He leans against the bench,
Side-on to me in my hiding place,
A ringside seat.
His cock too beautiful (and stiff) to hide any longer,
Forces its way out of his pants 
In all of its tumescent tightness,
The knob fat, the shaft slender, slightly curved,
His circumcision scar a darker ring of flesh
As his hand slides up and down, up and down.

Leaning against the bench his breathing becomes thicker, faster.
His other hand brings out his balls, pulling on them
The way I know he likes; I’ve seen it all before.
He looks out into the garden,
But his thoughts are focused elsewhere, elsewhere.
Taking me by surprise I spurt, 
Again and again into my shorts,
No self control at this stage.
As if in synch he cums too, that wave of pleasure.
He lurches forward to stand over the sink,
His body spasms, his cock shoots
Thick ropes which fall heavily into the basin
Over last night’s dishes.
A tasty meal.

He empties himself, his other hand steadying
While his balls drain, his jerks slowing,
Then all is still.
His cock spent and flaccid droops into the sink
While he leans in, regaining equilibrium.
Sound of splashing as he pisses
Standing there, a torrent over the dishes
The knives and forks and cups and saucers and glasses, 
Washing away his cum,
A yellow fragrant mess.
I want him to leave it for me, but he rinses it away 
Before tucking his cock and balls back in,
Heading to his bedroom for more sleep.

Waiting for his door to close,
Which it does gently (as if not to disturb me)
I creep from my shadows,
Cum dribbling down my leg, nestling in the hair
Of my thigh.
I stand over the sink and inhale
Faint traces of his semen and piss and body’s odour,
Which I have always found intoxicating.
I search amongst the rubble for a souvenir
And find it on the edge of the basin,
A thick trail dribbling down,
Missed by him in the dim light of not quite dawn.
Mine now as I scoop it up in my fingers,
Its loamy fragrance making my spent cock twitch,
Filling me with his sex.

Smearing it over my lips like a kiss,
I shut my eyes and imagine.
Then I go back to bed too,
But not to sleep.