I know just what you’re after. You may come over all learned and respectable, but you’re exactly like my library desk-mates. You want me to lean across the table to lap the dirt directly in your ear. You're after knowing, how in hell I wound up marrying a psychopath ? Oh really ? I’m getting the distinct impression that all this is just not enough. What, insufficiently salacious for you ? I know Damon’s the draw rather than me, but I can’t conjure up the violence for you. The sex however, that’s an altogether different matter. I was present for that at least. How does an indomitable sadist make sweet, gentle love ? Yeah, thought so. I can get you ringside for that. Royal Box even.
I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Since there’s only one way to do this and it demands some props. Yes, we’re in as good a place as any here. Go up to the bar and order me three drinks at once. No, not a treble. Three separate cocktails. Make sure they’re in the correct glasses mind. That barman should know what he’s doing. Now, first one’s called a “Blow Job” - yes really. Second’s an “Earthquake”, no on second thoughts make that a “Black and Blue”. For the last one, a “Gladiator”. You got that ? "Black and Blue", "Gladiator", "Blow Job". Bring them back here and I’ll swivel them around each another, you know like those Oxford Street con artists - “Find the Lady” is it ? How apposite. You just pick one and I’’ll drain it, then tell you what it represents. Yeah, now you’re getting it. They’re aides de memoire, even as they serve to addle de memoire. One for each procedural method. And by all means get three in for yourself ! I don’t like to drink alone. Well, not when I’m in company anyway ... Christ it’s like getting blood out of a stone. If you want to find this lady, best search the bottom of a glass. He wants sex, then I need alcohol. Isn’t that normally how these things work ? Even if the congress isn't actually to be between the two of us ... Ah, now there’s a holy trinity I’ll prostrate myself before. I’ll even remove my shades to appreciate the vision I hold before me. That’s it, just line them up there. Pick and mix. Okay, now shoot. That one ? Down the hatch !
Don’t look at me like that. Not done that way in the Grouchy Club ? I guess all those soaks’ heads don’t come back up again once they hit the table. Anyway, that’s why these drinks are called shooters. As easy as falling off a bike. Look Ma, no hands ! Worth ten Euros of anybody’s expense account I’d say. That curacao liqueur came all the way over the ocean from the Caribbean and I respect that. Honour it accordingly. So, down to business. Damon and the “Black and Blue”. Always after he’d had a touch. A right result. A major score of some kind, out in the parallel universe he inhabited away from me. That was all the slap and tickle he required. Like I’ve already mentioned, he’d arrive home all pumped up, aiguilette-cock in one hand, pillaged palliative trinket jewellry in the other, signalling that no fruit I could offer, forbidden or otherwise, could seduce him back to the tranquility of our Edenic bliss. He’d spend the evening gorging on war stories with his comradely captive audience in the lounge, so I knew I’d have no option but to retire to my chamber and douche all my orifices with liquid anaesthesia. For when he did finally take his leave, he was still primed, and no amount of bayonetting my pendant-stuffed effigy assuaged his lust. So I would just end up sore and dry. Like this smeared empty glass. ‘Why crack the combination, when you can just blow the bloody safe ?’. ‘Safe’, there’s a treacherous word if ever you heard one. At least it is if you’re married to a martinet. Next ?
Aha, good choice. The “Blow Job”. Stand back, give me room now. Chin chin ! There she blows. Got some dribbling down my chin and all ! Look Ma, no hands for real this time. Hence the name. Bailey’s, Amaretto and whipped cream. Better than sex if you ask me. Which I guess you are and you don’t concur, judging by the scowl on your face. What’s the matter ? I didn’t get any on your linen jacket did I ? You really ought to have got three in for yourself and match me drink for drink. Then a soused brain wouldn’t need to ask me ‘Why ?’. Alright, alright. Sex strain number two, was anything but a strain. The thing about Damon was that he was always on the go. He always had something cooking, so that his attention was perpetually parboiled. He maintained a sempiternal alertness to his surroundings, that could forever disgorge a threat. Sex in this phase seemed perfunctory. Damon wasn’t with me, his eyes sweeping beyond me. Servicing my need, while I siphoned his. Keeping one another ticking over rather than purring. Like two getaway cars, tuning up before a proper caper. (Later Lawrence was to opt for my chassis, though the silly bleeder quickly head on pranged us). It was these types of sessions that prompted me to query exactly what need I fulfilled in Damon. I’d just have to catch his darting gaze for an answer.
I’d observed a similar distracted, calculating intelligence before. In some of the academics, though obviously not this close up and intimate. I use the word intimate advisedly, for although seemingly not fully present, Damon was closer to me than any other human being at such moments. Presumably, when he stared into the eyes of other men from a comparable distance, there was only violence and an emasculating humour in his gaze. The fovea centralis’ polygraph needling whether a man was with Damon or against him. Yet to me, was yielded only pure, undiluted love. A unique perspective. No violence, no mockery, just a deadly serious sincerity. Contiguity, not severence. That was a connection I was never prepared to uncouple by shutting my eyes and surrendering to the moment. I’d just have to work for this.
My side of the compact was to maintain our perdurable union. Yes his eyes were skimming all round the room, but sunk inside me, he was free of all competing exigencies. My core was unshakable, so he did not have to fix me head on. His peripheral vision could cut loose. I did not smooth him out. I did not make him feel secure, for these are ridiculous notions. Simply he worked through the solidity of my foundation. He came home to me. His bedrock if not his salvation. I was his Observatory upon the tor, far from the neon tumult of nearby habitation. Upon whom he mounted his telescope, for which I was neither his reflector, nor refractor, in order to monitor the human constellations. Occasionally I liked to try and shake his focal plane, to spring his hair trigger physique, but always fixing him squarely in the eye. Though he acknowledged my strivings with a grin, he never skipped a beat in his cogitations. Affirming me as he did so, for he would never achieve such crystal clarity without my steadfastness. The intensity would ineluctably build. And when we were done, what was spent were his variables. He was left with a distillate of action. A certainty as to how to proceed. And me, my full being was extracted and offered back to me in the palm of his hand. His gift to me. That and the encompassment of his formidable love. That is why he still has my soul. My longing and my desideratum. Leaving me as scuffling around this netherworld like a shade. A no man quite like him, no-man’s land.
Which leaves us last, but not least, “The Gladiator”. Ave Imperator, morituri te salutant. Amaretto again, Southern Comfort, 7-Up and OJ. They call drinks like these a drop shot, cos they mix the liqueurs in one glass and then drop that blend into a larger glass containing the mixers. Hold on to that notion. I’ll take my time with this one. Let it linger. Which brings us to track three. What I took to be the real essential Damon, the one where he was involved and fully engaged. The one I call the baby oil special. I always knew it was coming, since he’d disappear off into the bathroom for an eternity to preen himself ... Spontaneity not being the order of the evening, hence I had some time to kill. I would lie back and luxuriate in the endless expanse of our ‘classical’ stainless steel four-poster. Digits trawling fore and aft through the endless seas of silk, reaching for the edge of the square world but never falling off. Fully extended now, querulous nerve-ends bombarding my mind with SOS’es. Lost at sea, the silky membrane floods over me, dissolving my skin to become my new vessel. Stripped back, I can feel the silkworm grubs spinning me afresh. Stretched sinews scream for air, juiceless. Direct it all to the brain. Shower that rapacious little muscle. Mirror, mirror, on the ceiling, who’s the greediest ... Scorch it, wipe it all clean. Cauterize the mind, so I can bathe in cascading cerebral detritus. That was the liqueurs churned. Now I was ready for the drop shot of the mixers.
In would surge the gladiator himself. Also adorned in flimsy silk armour, we were evenly pitted. His foreplay was to strut out of the bathroom, unfurl the sash of his kimono and slap his pectorals, with rapid percussive beats. Really striking the flesh into life. Then he applied baby oil, before readjusting the belt on his bathrobe and hitching up the hemline of his boxer shorts (made from the same bordello silk as I was draped on). He’d approach the bed, slap himself once more, before launching himself. Poised over me, like an ancient armoured knight being winched on to his mount, his fully extended tree-trunk arms bevelling into the mattress either side of my flanks. Not supporting himself on the tips of his fingers mind, but on the points of his knuckles, both hands having being balled into fists on impact with the silk. His fingers curled up unseen, there they would remain for the duration. He could have sucked both his thumbs for all the good they’d do me. So much for the clean and jerk.
As the mattress cratered beneath me, my head was levered up until embedded in his chest hair. During this phase of phoney war, with Damon stationed overhead while seeking out my logistical provisioning for his assault, my mind exhumed the manner of his bedside build-up. His focus had been like that of a weightlifter, (substitute chalk for baby oil, inject a couple of deep inhalations and you could almost have been at the Olympics). Confronting the deadweight making the bar sag. Arrow-slit eyes fended shut and torso tensed for impregnability, his arms took the strain. The snatch. Then he’d try and impale me through the bed and drive me into the floor. Pounding, pounding. Such ferocity, yet I was transfixed by the frozen image still with me, of him primped by the bed. It hurt too much to laugh, what with him trying to bench press me. But I had honed and polished myself for this trial, so I too dropped my visor. I too had harnessed my body and oh how we writhed.
Despite him being the one on top of me, he was having to try and bear me up for as long as he could. I was those dumbells in his basement gym, poised to defy his gravity. He was no longer god nor emperor in this arena. Beyond foreplay, the rules of physics no longer applied. Though he was pinning me, I was flying high as if on a trapeze. The more he pummeled, the higher I soared. But I took it all, the lot. I’d already secured my equipoise through tearing myself to pieces with silky frottage. Now he had to attain his. His were the muscles in spasm, driving him down, further into me. With the pain of his overbearing body crushing him, etching itself in a panting rictus, I began to climb yet higher. The caged bird of my life outside the bedroom, piloting free of its shackles, while he buckled further aloft me. Finally his eyes were pried open, only to register my total liberation, before he was riven asunder like ruptured dough. I had baked him a cake. Though he was always quick to regarner his grist, the tracer of his tugged open eyes had briefly illuminated a complete surrender of his sense of self. Since it was so fleeting, I never discovered if he even realised the depths of his submission, let alone whether it spurred him on for the next bout. Or whether he actually relished the one realm of defeat ever inflicted upon him. Best rogering I ever had though. So why on earth did I have to go thumb a lift and take a ride with the chauffeur ? Smashing my fist into a mirror and shattering its glass, cos something in my reflection bridled. That one will cost you seven years’ worth of drinks and even then there’s no guarantee. I’m only four years into the process myself and I’m no nearer a resolution.
There. That more to your liking ? Fit the bill of fare ? I know my audience. Course it’s all poppycock. More of a composite picture sown out of some of the worst sex I’ve encountered out here. Why would I let you in on my most private intimacies ? I want to hold on to those. Besides, broadcast them and I would immediately be fingered by Damon. Only he could pierce the intricate veracity and I just can’t afford that to happen. Not for all the tea in China. Or the olives in Greece. Or the maraschino cherries in Corfu. Gangster sex, my weren’t you just lapping it up ? Would it inherently differ from postman sex, plasterer sex or proctologist sex ? The kids’ve got a new lubricious dance that’s one stop short of impregnation ! Bump and grind they call it. I’m getting too old for all this effluvia. Be a doll would you ? Set me up another beverage, say a Stinger or a Rusty Nail. Rather than crucify myself, the least I could do for you is fill you in on wooing with Damon.
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