When I was Blond

When I Was Blond

When I was blond
I felt wonder-filled attraction for
Donnie Balcum.
I gazed at his body
All wet and shimmering in the shower after gym.
I watched him head to toe
So that I could see his face.
He saw me do it but didn’t care.
He loved my love for him.

Most men I knew while growing up
Only fucked women,
Piling them up like deer shot on a
Cold November day.
Guys always talked about women
But never about each other;
They tore women apart like so much meat for a
Heterosexual wolf-pack;
Women were the pristine snow where men tramped
Looking for the kill.

Their women lived in magazines and imagination,
Or in our kitchen.
They had no names, except those men gave them:
Cunt, Piece-of-Ass, A-Great-Fuck, or
Your Mother.

My father taught me nothing of the Mystery
Or how to touch it.
Instead, he taught me how to hunt deer.
He taught me how to lie
Beneath the snow, buried for hours,
Silent, half-frozen, motionless, and hidden from sight,
Like a shadow, a ghost. A corpse.

One day he caught me gazing at a young buck
Standing all wet and shimmering in the winter light.
I gripped my gun, all ready and cocked.
But I could not move. I dared not speak or breathe
Before such Terrible Beauty.

My father swore at me and shot.

The magnificent body shuttered,
Then fell into the snow,
Into the softness and the white.
No cry, no pain. Only the echo of
Perfect aim.

My father made me watch him gut it;
He made me watch the heart ripped out.
“There, there it is!” he shouted,
And thrust it before my eyes.
I reached out and touched it, still wet and warm,
Smooth and pink beneath the dying sun.
Steam rose from its dark recesses,
Dark blood dribbled downward,
Defiling my fingers and polluting the snow.

I thought of Donnie Balcum
Standing naked in the light
And suddenly felt the confusion and the cold.
I could not look; I turned away.
I hated my father for killing what I loved so much.

One day I stole my older brother’s Playboy
I took ten women to bed that night.
They were mine, all mine!
But they had no name, no heart, no life –
Like the young buck in the snow.

But I did the Forbidden Thing,
And when it came time to pull the trigger,
I thought of Donnie Balcum standing naked in the light
All wet and shimmering,
Loving my love for him.
And I shot.

My body shuddered, falling downward
Into softness and white,
To the place where men are afraid to go.
I saw wounded angels falling gracefully
From Heaven’s Gate,
Into my eyes and then my soul.
They were wondrous spirits, bright lights
Captured in bodies too beautiful to be human.
And they were familiar.
Like Donnie Balcum.

Their Godlike hearts beat like rhythmic flames
Against my soul;
On seraphic wings, desire and passion
Unknown ‘till then rushed inward,
Calling forth floods of Joy
From the dark recesses of my soul..

“There, there it is”, whispered my Life.
I had to look; I did not turn away.
Reaching out, I touched them – all of them,
And my soul soared home.
– Anthony Boccaccio

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My only poem. It just jumped out of me one day without warning. It’s a real memory of Junior High School during the basketball and hunting season. The scenes are all real, right up to the end. This sums up my relationship with my father pretty much. My mother read it after my father passed away and she cried – mostly because she was a published writer and poet and felt what only a mother could feel, I guess. It got published once in a Men’s Magazine.

Tags

gay, homoerotic, masturbation, youth, relationship, hunting, fantasy, men, fathers, self acceptance

Tony began his career with National Geographic Magazine in 1971. Since then, his camera has taken him to over thirty countries in as many years.

Like most photographers, he is a series of contrasts: His lens has captured the frozen landscapes of Iceland and the sweltering jungles of the Amazon.

He is probably most known for his beautiful travel photography, yet while working with the human figure, his sensitivity rivals that of the great painters.

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Comments

  • RamonFernandez
    RamonFernandezover 3 years ago

    Wow! Perhaps more beautiful than your photos. This is outstanding writing.

  • Thank you. It’s my first and only poem. I wrote it in 1981, 30 years ago! (Actually, it seemed to write itself) Hard to imagine. Maybe I should let more spill out.

    – Anthony Boccaccio

  • RamonFernandez
    RamonFernandezover 3 years ago

    Yes, Anthony let it spill. That is an amazing writing so full of imagery, passion and emotion. It is so very moving and touches the depths of my soul.

  • Pete Klimek
    Pete Klimekover 3 years ago

    So gentle, so warm, so much understanding, so many questions – so very, very beautiful, Anthony!

  • Anthony Boccaccio
    Anthony Boccaccioover 3 years ago

    Thank you, all. It continues to move me even after so many years since I wrote it…or it wrote itself. Tony

  • drjones
    drjonesalmost 3 years ago

    wow. wow. wow. I’m IN these words.

  • Tell me more!

    – Anthony Boccaccio

  • drjones
    drjonesalmost 3 years ago

    “I thought of Donnie Balcum
    Standing naked in the light
    And suddenly felt the confusion and the cold.
    I could not look; I turned away.
    I hated my father for killing what I loved so much”

    The contrast being the deer and Donnie Balcum is just perfect. I’ve been wanting for SO long to find a piece of writing that really touched me. Thank you Anthony.

  • drjones
    drjonesalmost 3 years ago

    I’m back, I can’t stop reading it over and over. You know- maybe you don’t need to write anything else. This says so much. It’s just perfected as though written by an angel.

  • Thank you for your kind words. I haven’t written anything as well since this. It’s discouraging. so I make photographs and paint. Maybe I’ll try writing again. I’m very happy the work touches you so much. As I re-read it, I’m also moved by the poignancy of those moments in my youth. I always wondered what happened to Donnie Balcum. He was so beautiful in my eyes; a young Adonis. What wonderful memories and emotions.

    – Anthony Boccaccio

  • Are you still around? I loved that self portrait of you in the mirror. Nice blue eyes. I have blue eyes. So, tell me more about how you see yourself in my poem. I see you like to photograph women; yet my poem is about growing up gay. I’d be interested to know why you related so much to my poem.

    – Anthony Boccaccio

  • nudegayguy
    nudegayguyabout 2 years ago

    I love it. Wonderful imagery.

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