Male cat-callers … can they take it themselves?!!

Okay, yeah … there are lots of videos, discussions and news reports about male cat-callers in today’s media coverage. Like THIS DEBATE ON CNN!

But can these male cat-callers and predators take unexpected (and perhaps unwanted) attention themselves? That exaggerated sexuality is bound to be attractive to others; but can you accept that you might get response from someone other than the female you are being a predator against? Here is just a small sample of what is out there bros! How sex-secure are you, really?!!


Responding to the call
of a warm summer night,
the muscled youth surveys the
streets from his Oakland stoop
with the vigilance of a vulture.
He soothes the heat
pervading his loins
with beer and cigarettes,
and gyrates to rhythms
from his Sony Walkman to
intensify his baiting scent.
At the passing off each female,
he extends greetings and suggestions –
lastly to a haughty one who
requests that he kindly ‘drop dead.’
The youth throws a kiss and laughs
in sport and self-defence,
until he spies the adoring stare
of another boy, and yells:
“What are you looking at, faggot?!!”


You know — I hardly recognised you
out-of-drag this afternoon!
Your clever disguise
enabled you to sit down
before I could run away.
You both surprised and intrigued me
when you lamented the slow
passage of time — for I
have often envied and despised
your freedom, and almost fickle
sense of reality.
Funny how …
all these years …
I regarded you as crazy.
But now that we share disillusionment
with expectation and time,
I recognise you in myself.


Let’s get something straight …
I am not ‘gay’, and this is a
one-time thing … so don’t
go expecting anything more;
don’t say ‘hello’ to me on
the street, at the mall or at the gym;
and for God’s sake don’t you ever
tell anyone about this …
(if you know what is best for you.)
Agreed? Good! Now ‘manhandle’ me bitch …
Yeah!!! … now THAT’s what I’m talking about …


Slap me with your sex magic,
and drive me home via my nipples.
I’ve found my silver lining
in the strand of pre-cum
drooling from your precipice.
Tease me with the flex
of your oiled biceps
as you grab me by the hair
and draw me into the
chasm of celluloid beauty.
Tempt me, force yourself upon me,
and — for God’s sake — stay in my
consciousness while I examine
the photo on the next page.


Being the old-fashioned faggot
that I am, I delight in
chasing straight boys
until they catch me.
I buy them drinks,
light their cigarettes,
and tell them they are
the biggest and the best.
Then I take them home
and give them what they want
and deserve –
as deep and as hard as


I lie on the sofa – half-asleep in a wet dream,
my body lubricated with sweat and the
room pungent with the imagined scent of
dripping man-cunt and semen.
The ringing of the telephone disrupts my fisted dance
with an impudence that only can be described
in four- or five-letter words, and a disturbing
feeling comes over me – somehow
I know that something is amiss –
this crazy vision of mine offers no
humane release; there is no humanity
anymore – only the immorality of
so-called ‘morality’ and idleness.
They say that idleness is the work of
the Devil, yet society binds us to
television and global propaganda
ranging from politics to advertising:
a sadomasochistic mind control.
Big Brother is not watching us –
we have become Him willingly,
embracing uniformity and ratting
out suspected dissidents – be they
enemy or friend, neighbour or mother.
I pick up the receiver and before
I manage to grunt ‘hallo’ I hear
a husky breathing sound –
not quite panting, but a
relentless deep-seated
emanation evolving from
the caller’s spleen.
After two minutes of mutual
breathing into the receivers,
I excuse myself to go get
a cigarette, and we continue
our duet – my caller singing
the baseline while I willingly
exhale the melody.
When my suitor abruptly
hangs up the telephone
I fall back onto the sofa,
finally spent – and
immediately depressed.
I cannot get the experience
out of my mind, it is forever
embedded in my libido and
I will never again be the same.


Dirty talking shadows in
dimly-lit, smoke-filled bars
stir restless gonads to
suggestion, proposition
and sweet, nasty lies.
The scent of body sweat
mingles with department store
perfume like oil and water,
leather and silk –
unlikely, yet strangely magnetic.
Oh yeah …
I love the way the lie
exuding from your posing stance
binds my wrists and genitals,
pulling me to my knees;
demanding nameless submission.
Across the distance we begin a
sultry dance of anonymous flirtation:
I turn to catch your stare,
you look away;
my eyes drop to my cocktail,
yours slowly scan my torso and loins.
I acknowledge with a smile and you
walk away because I broke the rules,
was too eager to collude fantasy
with reality and was, therefore, unsafe.
You feign indifference as you watch me
leave with another two hours later.
And I’m already half-spent as
I prepare to torpedo our dirty talk
into the bowels of my compromise.

(I’m just sayin’ ya’ll … I’m just sayin’)

(poems by Adam Donaldson Powell)

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