Eclectic Tastes

Your eyes of stone
burn into mine,
I feel my skin catch fire
as you watch my movements
I feel the urge,
to grab you,
have you,
mark you as mine.

"Scott, are you busy?"

Scott's head shot up, one arm moving to cover the paper in front of him. "Professor. Hi."

"I haven't seen you write in quite awhile." The Professor dipped his head toward the paper. "It's good to see you inspired."

"Haven't really had time lately." Scott put his pen down and relaxed a little. The Professor knew he was private about his writing. He wouldn't ask questions. "Was there something in particular you needed?"

"Just a small favor when you get time. I heard from Logan this afternoon, and he gave me a current address, along with a request for a few things from his room. I was hoping you could gather them up for me."

Scott pushed down the urge to make a crack about shipping Logan his things when he got his bike back. "Of course. What does he need?"

"He said he left an extra pair of boots in the closet and some books by the bed. Here is the address." The Professor handed a piece of paper to Scott. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Scott waited for the Professor to leave before he stood himself. He put his poem in his filing cabinet, locked the cabinet, and went to Logan's old room.

He found the boots in the back corner of the closet. They were spattered with mud, the laces worn, and the creases at the bend of the toes completely bendable with very little effort. They were exceedingly well worn. Scott tied the laces together and tossed them into the box he'd brought with him.

The books were on the night table, stacked haphazardly with bits of paper sticking out as bookmarks. Scott tossed them in the box, glancing at titles as he went. He'd never really thought of Logan reading, and the selection was more varied than he would have thought. There was a crime novel, something in German, a fantasy novel, and at the bottom, Walt Whitman.

Scott raised his eyebrows. He knew Whitman, enjoyed Whitman, and the Whitman Logan had on his night table was highly homoerotic. Well. He couldn't come up with a thought past that. He opened the book to one of the paper-marked pages and was surprised, again, to find the notes in the margins to be concise and interesting. At the end f the poem was a name, scrawled on the bottom right edge of the page, was a name. Eric.

He flipped to the next poem, found the same type of notes, and a different name. David. The third poem had Michael, and the fourth, Scott. Scott? Scott who? He took a closer look at the notes "Hard head... self-righteous... proud." Is that... me?

Scott's head was swimming. He put the book in the box, closed it up and carried it back to his office. He set the box on the chair in front of his desk and unlocked his filing cabinet.

Your intellect,
a surprise,
I never guessed,
You hid it well
behind the growl and snarl
I want to mark you more now than ever.

He folded the paper into thirds, tucked it inside the Whitman book, and sealed the box.

It shipped in the afternoon mail.