Flowers in a London Apartment
Kofi Fosu forson

"And then what will he do...Piss off it! Like what...Sadie it's your body. And then? To hell with him. Don't you ever...I swear he ever lays a hand on you what I wouldn't do. Sadie! Sadie...I gotta go. Speak to you later."

The nerve of him. Sadie is too sweet to even know better. I woulda fucked him that's the problem. He offers to pay your way you do it. You don't come up with some shit 'bout commitment. What does she know. I love her like a sis but sometimes she's got a dig up the cunt. Tony's a good lay. I'd off him like that. You call a spade a spade. He hits her because she doesn't put out. The fuck of it...

Damn the cold. I've got the fit. Shit. Who was it that said he stuck a fag up his lady's bum to get off? Or did it happen to me? The fuck of it...I get sick and tired of this. When am I gonna get a job? I'm hung up on this. Not like it's getting me anywhere. I get paid dammit. I gotta keep telling myself that. I get paid. Wankers last night...The four of them. Can't believe I lasted that long. Like a fuck doll or whatever...Sure beats working the parents for a loan. The fuck of it...

Here's a funker. I betcha he's got a cigarette. He looks warmed up. Can't figure him out though. Shades at night...strange. No trouble here. Gonna off him for a trick.

"Excuse me you got a cigarette." Like what he's gonna walk away? "Are you sure you don't." He hasn't said a word. We're walking together...he hasn't said a word. Like what the fuck. Prick. "Yeah I get it you don't have a cigarette." The fuck of him we walking together and you don't say a word. Wouldn't have done him. Wouldn't have done him. Cheap shit.

Gotta pee. Guess I walk in here order a cup and have a pee. Not much of a crowd. I fancy sitting back there. Gotta work the pee first. Something says I'm due for a fuck tonight. Wouldn't find one here I don't think. Never know who could walk in. I'll fuck off the coffee long enough 'til I meet my match. Sure am lonely tonight. A good pee and I'm off a' thinking. Sure am trouble. Footballers? Me cunt's a little tender I think...hmm. Piss.

Bullocks. The fuck's got me seat. Queer. I'd fuck him. I'll sit next to him long enough 'til he turns straight. Oh well what do you know he's an artist. But to sketch in a coffee shop. I'd be just the the thing for him tonight. The look of him like some pretty boy from the academy. He's got something about him. I can tell. Could be mad or whatever. Queer. Bet he fucks like a queer. He's got pretty fingers I must say. So what I ask him if I could take a look. He's not gonna off me or whatever. Queer. Fucking queer.

"So what now?""Yeah I like it. Is it of me?" "But you weren't looking at me." "You've got talent."

The fuck is asking me if I want to model for him tonight. Is he serious. Apparently he is. We're walking out...I can't believe this. How do you figure an artist for a fuck. Like what he's going to paint me. I never sat for one of these. Not like I haven't taken my clothes off. So like what he's going to fuck me. I make money this way love. If you're going to fit it in me better bring the load love. Pounds of it. To think he's going to get a one off for free. Stupid. What did you learn in college. To fist or fuck costs you plenty. We've made the turn. I guess we've arrived.

A studio apartment. I figured as much. Got to admit I love his work. Quite the knack for color. I do love flowers. Would I...definitely not. A fuck in exchange for flowers. Paintings of that is. How ridiculous. Come to think of it I've fucked an artist. A bullshit artist. Bullocks. Getting that queer feeling 'bout this guy.

Got loads of boys out on the corner looking for a treat. Then again what a night for a fuck to then make money up and leave with no regrets. Instead the most beautiful boy I've met in a while is preparing to paint me. I love his paintings of flowers. They would look perfect on my wall. I have no shame.

I think I want to fuck him. I think I want him to fuck me.

Recent publication of WHITEHOT MAGAZINE features a spread of my photographs.

The Pocket Poet Thief
Kofi Fosu Forson

I am a pocket poet thief. "Intellectual fuck," she called me, Nuelle, a Russian barber from Queens, New York.

She knew them well, the bros, bitch-shit boys from the hood. They walked in with the bounce, careful and clever ready to pounce with knife or fist. But leave it up to them to tone and touch, a soft tweek on Nuelle's shoulder. Never would she have allowed a kiss on the cheek not even on the days I tipped well or brought a bottle of wine for New Years.

I am a pocket poet thief. She liked me. I addressed the days' innuendo whenever I walked in. "Nuelle you've lost some weight." " "Nuelle we should go out sometime." Just enough to keep my options open to trip her up.

Maybe she would have had enough of the bruiser cruiser-bad boy behavior. These fucks had nothing on me. I dressed well, smoked my 555 imports, kept it simple. While she cut my hair, I divorced myself of cliches.

We spent the time clicking on our hopes and desires. She wanted back to school. I wanted to open a hotel. She had a daughter. I was single. But it was all sexstress the moments our eyes made contact in the mirror.

What of the poet? Yes indeed I am. I trust you know your vocabulary or persistent in your vernacular. I've walked the streets of Italy at night. Had enough hand jobs in buses traveling across the midwest. I have handled Hong Kong waitresses. Made of with a teenager at a wedding in Vancouver.

It is therefore my assertion that I'm well-spoken. Like a thief with tongue I take with word what you say and I spin. I drug the meaning of what's spoken and present you with the most poetic thing you ever heard. It has worked well at parties, bars and even funerals. For a woman to take of her panties at a time of death I would have served her well.

Nuelle and I made it to a casino one night. After hours of gambling we made it back to the hotel room. Strong I was. The kiss that is was muscular, arrogant, tough full of tongue and grit. With our clothes on I handled her.

The smell of perfume on her neck, a whiff then a lick on the ear-lobe, nibbling, biting... Gripped her by the shoulder, watching as she undid her shirt. Even before she removed her bra, I stuck my fingers in to pull out her breast, sucking full-mouthed, tasting her nipple. She allowed me the comfort of the other breast. I did the same.

She stripped herself of underwear, pulled me towards the bed where she fell on her back, lifting up her skirt to expose her pussy, shaven, wet and moist. With both fingers I spread her open licking, gradually sucking juice, rotating my tongue all around, spreading the pussy wider...

Our clothes off and on the bed, I stuck my dick in her, forced it in hard and began to ram in and out, spreading her knees apart. On her side I thrusted again slower with a groove, watching as her leg angled in the air. Her black pumps perfectly placed on her foot. I bent her over on the bed, dug it in and stiff-fucked her. Her hips banged against mine in a hot rhythm.

She wanted it in ass particular. I took my time, readied it, patient and vulgar, managed to pull of the trick. I went in and out with such symmetry. Both her arms were stretched east to west on the bed. One side of her face remained flat on the bed. Her buttocks raised, I mounted over fucking the dirt of her.

Pulling out, I turned her around to face me. I jerked my dick, stripped it of cum...all over her face, grimacing as she struggled to lick the excess of her lips.

The week after we met again we hardly said a word to each other. I gave her a fat tip...to erase any notion that we were lovers. Our eyes made contact in the mirror yet again.

She knew. I knew... That was plenty.