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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Comedy · #1009390
Just a poem about a guy that really likes pastries.
I’m in a bakery that smells so seductively sweet.
I can’t understand why I feel so grand inside my heart and down in my pants.
Beneath the glass case at the front, delectably-styled sugars entice me ever so much.
I lick my lips and adjust my fly because I’m simply a horny guy, I guess.
“What would you like?” asks the obese baker that acts as proprietor to my desires.
I can’t answer. My mouth is parched due to my admirations.
If I eat those dried, cakey sweets, I can only become more parched but this want is strong.
I think I’ll play along.
I rap against the case, picking and choosing mentally.
My finger points one way and my Johnson points towards another.
I want a chocolate donut and he wants a beautifully shaped cinnamon roll.
I stare at the donut and imagine the sensual smells that emanates therein as
         the glass blocks the true smell. Mmmm, chocolaty.
I decide to glance at the cinnamon roll. It simply sits there, glazed with white icing,
         and poised as if ready to be plucked, sucked, covered in my icing and roughly anal
I shutter and a small moan escapes my lips. “Merrrnnnn…”
Crullers like it hot, moist, and filled with fructose.
“Sir, you a’ight?” asks the obese baker that acts as the owner of all that fulfills my desire.
I ignore him because now, both Johnson and I see the same delectable device:
         A glazed éclair.
It beckons and tantalizes us both until I feel as if I should either get out of my clothes or
         out of the bakery.
I decide to stay and move closer to the glass so I can stare down at that phallicly
         employed and orally enjoyed tasty tart of a treat.
To say that treat was tart-like is an ill choice of words at best; it looked wholly unsullied
         by it’s counterparts. That fritter there does look sullied and if I were feeling a little
         more randy and a little less dandy then I’d settle on that fritter.
But the éclair is there and it’s waiting for us to pick it up and put it down.
I fervently point through the blanketing glass at the éclair and tell that obese baker who
         holds the keys that unlock my happiness to give it to me… and to give me that
         feisty-looking fritter.
I don’t feel too randy now, but I know I will later.
Johnson likes his fun.
When it comes down to it, I just like a warm bun.
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