Let’s not undress. Let’s wait.
Let’s kiss in our tuxedos.
Let’s let the fabrics highlight
our muscles in legs and arms,
our buttocks, trim in our pants,
our pecs, shaved under our shirts.
Let’s frolic and sweat in velvet.
Let’s pretend our bow ties are
an extension of our strokes.

Let’s not undress. Let’s sweat.

Now that the crowd is gone,
and we’re alone at last,
let’s explore each other’s smile.
Our faces flushed, our muscles gripped.
No need to shout it. No need to hurry.
We have proof of our desire
when we rub zipped fly against zipped fly.

Let’s kiss as though we’d never kissed before.

The party’s over, the lights are off,
the cameramen are gone,
the microphones can’t capture
our loud moaning.
There are no spectators.
It’s all for our eyes only.
And we can wait. We know.

Let’s wait until tomorrow.

We know because we did
perform our duties well
this morning when we met
at work for the first time.
We know how big our cocks are.
We know our firm nipples match,
we know our arse holes can accommodate
because we’ve already sucked each other
and fucked each other
and come over each other’s chest,
arses shot from awkward angles,
cum shots taken from below
and above, from the side, …
close-ups of our shaven balls.
It was an anodyne plot.

Let’s not undress now.

We saw it at first sight,
before we took our clothes off.
Something they never saw.
They won’t see it tomorrow.
We are professionals, you know.
But when the scene is over,
our uniforms ripped off,
each other’s semen mixed
with sweat and grease,
we’ll share a kiss
if no one’s peeking in the showers.

Let’s sweat. Let’s kiss. Let’s wait.

We must behave tomorrow.
And we’ll not need a fluffer,
that’s for sure.
Whatever happens now,
we know that we’ll perform.
And we’ll pretend that we pretend
when we appear lustful on the set.
Let’s not undress. Let’s wait.