Charles Bukowski — Hot Dog Live

Hot Dog When we started in, here would come this big, black, hairy male hound Dripping of mouth and penis, stinking and panting and lurid with the smell of the ass Whimpering, begging, snorting through Valentino nostrils Stinking like a Hollywood motel doormat, wet in the rain And when I stopped to kick him out of bed, she'd say, "Oh, don't hurt Timmy!" and Timmy would run in erotic circles, smelling his asshole Licking his thin, long, sickly penis And I'd return to my task, and just begin to near enlightenment And here would come Timmy again Being in the missionary position, I was able to rat him a good fist or two across the snout But it didn't stop him from sniffing, drooling, poking And that's the way we finished, all three of us She had a good job down on sunset boulevard, which was more than I could say And when she left in the morning, she pointed out half a pill, a black upper, on the headboard And she told me to go out the back because her mother had an apartment in front And she didn't want her mother to see me Then I'd take the upper and look at that dog And his eyes would look at mine, openly We had no secrets And I knew and he knew that we were both her lovers And I knew by looking at him that he needed her more than I did I left that morning, driving in the bright sunshine, feeling hazy, spooked, unreal But still alright She phoned three or four times after that Now its over, past When I looked into his eyes that morning, I knew he loved her and that all I wanted was sex Maybe if it would've been a man I couldn't have given her up I couldn't have done it But then I never met a man with eyes as beautiful as those that dog had


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