11-21-2010, 11:02 AM
For some reason, during these fantasies, I'm always wearing a pressed suit, having emerged from a party, perhaps, and trailing drunken talk, music and perfume behind my hurried step, as an arm through my elbow steers me towards a warm, womb-like home, a townhouse, facing the pavements which tonight are obscured by a prudish veil of rain. It is then that I realise that the elbow is you, "you" being a configuration of handsome faces, bodies and genitals extracted from acquaintances, friendships, photographs and porno films. Once I am spent, reclining on my single bed with a sigh of vacant satisfaction, the fantasy becomes a memory, and I worry that they might evolve into psychotic delusions. Nevertheless, I think of you as real, when I am most enveloped by sheer loneliness, and so maybe the following might be viewed as a conversation, as opposed to an elaborate wet dream...
We made the windows rattle like clapboard shutters in a Mexican town, on the advent of some hurricane, and the fire breathed across our flesh, a lecher who lurks in dark car parks, warmed by the sight of copulation on each vehicle's rough leather seats. Still wearing my slacks, shirt, tie and jacket, you laid me on the rug, the way a child would his new puppy, and I shook with a mix of horror and lust, a desire for the act coupled with a fear of it, as you removed your jumper, exposing your greasy torso, threw it on the armchair behind you, then unzipped your flies, slowly, relishing my dread, I think, how I bit my lip with a dreadful anticipation.
You slipped a hand beneath my head and raised it level with your shame; I took it with tentative tongue, feeling your thighs on either side of my waist, and a brief unbearable pressure as you jostled yourself into place, allowing me to swallow you whole, render you a eunuch with the cavern of my throat. Feeling like I might burst free of my pants at any moment, destroy these trousers which cost fifty pounds, you grabbed my crotch with your free hand, and I squealed as best as I could, my mouth still full of you, the glorious taste riding a Cadillac through the wasteland of my dreams, amassed and left to rot ever since I turned thirteen, and discovered the appeal of my peers. For once I knew what I was; I was filthy, I was real, I was beset with an uncontrollable urge, a perversion according to some religious quarters, and now I was expressing it, and enjoying the expression at that. I was inexperienced, but an education in dirty novels told me that I should go slow, lick and probe and feel my way around, and you didn't protest; on the contrary, I heard you thank a God you didn't believe in, through hoarse and dry whispers. I was also small and you were big, a giant thing looming over me with the intent to control, invade and plunder like a swarm of soldiers descending on a small village.
Before the explosion could take place, you laid my head softly on the rug again, releasing your shame with both our reluctance. Now was the time to undo my belt, and I felt as I did when I was fourteen, trapped in the changing rooms and forced to undress, before my entire P. E. class. The recalled humiliation stung my eyes; you kissed my lids - an admittance of trust on my part - and placed your hand against my breast, feeling my red muscle beat below the black fabric. I felt the material lower, brush my ankles, and you lifted my feet like you would a live pig's, so it can be hung upside down and stuck, and placed them on either side of your neck, not seeming to notice the weight on your shoulders. We exchanged smiles - yours confident, mine nervous - and then you began the slow push, push, push, breathing heavier each time I whined, my body being opened and explored like a Sri Lankan cave, a warm flesh not my own becoming a part of what's considered "me." Thrust, thrust, thrust; the insane, euphoric grin; the determination of the other rousing me to breaking point; a devastation, like Hiroshima, leaving not even those skinless Japanese children.
A warm substance coats my inner thigh. Springs crunch and scream below my weight on this stale bunk bed, the centrepiece of my "boudoir," which faces no rain soaked pavement, and contains no fireplace, no rug, no handsome lover.
We made the windows rattle like clapboard shutters in a Mexican town, on the advent of some hurricane, and the fire breathed across our flesh, a lecher who lurks in dark car parks, warmed by the sight of copulation on each vehicle's rough leather seats. Still wearing my slacks, shirt, tie and jacket, you laid me on the rug, the way a child would his new puppy, and I shook with a mix of horror and lust, a desire for the act coupled with a fear of it, as you removed your jumper, exposing your greasy torso, threw it on the armchair behind you, then unzipped your flies, slowly, relishing my dread, I think, how I bit my lip with a dreadful anticipation.
You slipped a hand beneath my head and raised it level with your shame; I took it with tentative tongue, feeling your thighs on either side of my waist, and a brief unbearable pressure as you jostled yourself into place, allowing me to swallow you whole, render you a eunuch with the cavern of my throat. Feeling like I might burst free of my pants at any moment, destroy these trousers which cost fifty pounds, you grabbed my crotch with your free hand, and I squealed as best as I could, my mouth still full of you, the glorious taste riding a Cadillac through the wasteland of my dreams, amassed and left to rot ever since I turned thirteen, and discovered the appeal of my peers. For once I knew what I was; I was filthy, I was real, I was beset with an uncontrollable urge, a perversion according to some religious quarters, and now I was expressing it, and enjoying the expression at that. I was inexperienced, but an education in dirty novels told me that I should go slow, lick and probe and feel my way around, and you didn't protest; on the contrary, I heard you thank a God you didn't believe in, through hoarse and dry whispers. I was also small and you were big, a giant thing looming over me with the intent to control, invade and plunder like a swarm of soldiers descending on a small village.
Before the explosion could take place, you laid my head softly on the rug again, releasing your shame with both our reluctance. Now was the time to undo my belt, and I felt as I did when I was fourteen, trapped in the changing rooms and forced to undress, before my entire P. E. class. The recalled humiliation stung my eyes; you kissed my lids - an admittance of trust on my part - and placed your hand against my breast, feeling my red muscle beat below the black fabric. I felt the material lower, brush my ankles, and you lifted my feet like you would a live pig's, so it can be hung upside down and stuck, and placed them on either side of your neck, not seeming to notice the weight on your shoulders. We exchanged smiles - yours confident, mine nervous - and then you began the slow push, push, push, breathing heavier each time I whined, my body being opened and explored like a Sri Lankan cave, a warm flesh not my own becoming a part of what's considered "me." Thrust, thrust, thrust; the insane, euphoric grin; the determination of the other rousing me to breaking point; a devastation, like Hiroshima, leaving not even those skinless Japanese children.
A warm substance coats my inner thigh. Springs crunch and scream below my weight on this stale bunk bed, the centrepiece of my "boudoir," which faces no rain soaked pavement, and contains no fireplace, no rug, no handsome lover.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe