Fucking Strangers

Fucking Strangers

I think about it all the time,
Fucking strangers on my mind.
Journeys into town or out of town,
Peppered with erotic fiction, profound.

On the corner by the park,
Lads who do hard work in the dark.
Tight t-shirts and bulging arms,
Arse so tempting, full of charms.

On the train, more to see,
Sleeve tattoos, hot and steamy.
Holding me tight against the wall,
Whispering 'ssssh' so we won't fall.

A guy in a suit, looking so shy,
On his way to an interview to try.
Dripping sweat in the July heat,
Oozing nervous horniness, oh so sweet.

I don't stare, just glance once,
Notice, memorize, then look away at once.
The rest happens in my head,
Imagining how we'd be in bed.

He'd raise his eyebrows in surprise,
If I passed him a note that says 'fuck me' nice.
Swallowing nervously once or twice,
We'd run through crowds and grab at each other so nice.

We'd fuck in the toilets of Costa,
Hard and quick, bent over the toilet that smells of bleach, oh so gross-a.
When we're done, staff would notice us sneaking away,
And ask if we're going to buy any coffee today.

On the way back home, more guys with tattoos,
Fucking strangers distracting me from my views.
Pushing me onto my knees on the filthy floor,
Forearms tense with the effort of pulling my face onto his cock, oh so hardcore.

But it doesn't happen, fucking strangers.
Rules to follow, and my fantasy self is just as imaginary as these strangers.
So I continue my journey, glancing away,
Not fucking strangers, just enjoying what they do in my head all day.

As I get nearer home, the lads on the corner are still there,
Dreaming of more drinks and another hour to spare.
I dream of them fighting over who gets to fuck which hole,
Fucking strangers in my head, a world of pleasure to behold.