Johnny College – Poem by Alfonso Colasuonno

Alfonso Colasuonno – Johnny College

Do I belong here
Amongst the creeps
Who don’t wake early on Sunday
And have never cast a ballot for family values?
At one end, there’s a yuppie looking at leashes
Suit fits his contours perfectly, a scowl
I try not to feel all gabbagabba
But I wonder what he looks like on his knees
As he’s dragged along a leash
By some nineteen year old hustler with a Ricky Ricardo accent

At the other end, there’s a burnt out hash slinger
A schoolmarm done wrong too many times type, a scowl
I try not to feel all gabbagabba
But I wonder how it feels
When her lover, another schoolmarm done wrong too many times type, a scowl
Straps on her jumbo-sized jet black funmaker and gets it in

Is this the real New York City?
New York before Bloomberg
New York before Giuliani
New York before Occupy 42nd Street

I’m just another creep
With all the other creeps
Surrounded by those who don’t subscribe to the standard sexual mores
Missionary – man – woman – only for procreation – don’t enjoy it – ever
Relics from stale black and white sitcoms on obscure cable channels

Do they question why I’m here?
Staring into bins of Crowns and Kimonos
Knowing how few notches are in my belt
Mocking me in their internal monologues
Are they glancing my way?

Blondie comes over
She’s going to help me out
She guides me to the lube
And says, yes, we have that
And yes, it does come with the sleeve

Freezing up when she asks what color
Do you want it in pink, mocha, or ice?
I want the mocha – but she’s pink
Duck the issue, use your reflexes, you’ve deal with this, the squirter
Maybe I’ll take the ice mumbled between uhhs and umms and yeahs
Ah, hmm, eh, actually on second thought
Maybe the pink will be more realistic
Placating her by choosing the pink lady
It validates her
It makes her all wet and want to spread, if only I had some balls and asked her to
Back to my place
Inserting 1, 2, 3, 4 inside
A fist doesn’t fit
Even after a good lick
I’m slathered in lube
And some more is squirted inside
A dab on my finger to grease it up
And then it’s inside
Twist it some to make it nice and tight

Staring at the clock on the wall
At the beginning
And at the end
Harder and harder
Tighter and tighter
Milking me
Feeling it shoot out in a quick burst
Like a gunshot – steam rising from the barrel
Trigger on autofire
Feeling like a New York cop
Not like when I use my hand
And it glops out like runny mashed potatoes
But more like that song
Love like a fountain
Just twenty-two minutes

Did I use it right?
Why am I sore?
Should it be on such a tight setting
That when I pull out
Blood drips onto the bedsheets that mother still washes?
Did the lube give me an infection?
Am I allergic to glycerin?
Wouldn’t that be a bitch
But if so, I must admit it’s fun going to the doctor
I hope it stays flaccid there
And I hope she thinks it’s sizable
Because I’m a slut like that
I want her to talk about it with the receptionist and the nurse
So they’ll smile
The next time I fake sick to get out of work.


Alfonso Colasuonno is a pervert masquerading as a poet. He lives in Upper Appalachia, where he drinks whiskey and stares at girls’ thighs in country bars. His website is

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