Sexology in the open university. And they said I didn’t have the stamina for a phD ! Student didn’t exactly instruct teacher, but the lesson was determinedly reinforced for me once again. Since the candid date ticked all the same multiple-choice boxes as his peers before him. This notion occuring to me, as I lay on the floor, while he thrust in my mouth like he was mounting a pre-dawn police raid. The scaley scrotal sack looming large in my vision, like a buffeted punchbag as it lurched and weaved. I just couldn’t help myself. I had to derive something out of this trip to the well. So I appended my fingertips to the hide and palpated it, as if it were the gourd of a snake charmer’s flute and I was blowing through his shaft. Made him dance alright. However, since serpents lack ears, they are swaying in reflexively defensive response, to the sinuous motion of the pipe player, rather than any sweet music emanating from his lips. Same went for this boy, albeit with his eyes throttled shut.
It’s the way they look at you. On the rare occasions they have their snake eyes exposed. And that’s only if they deign to have you facing them. Most of them like to sit or lie comfortably and have me riding them like a Nautilus rowing machine. That’s why on the limited face to face clinches I’m permitted, I like to manipulate them. To make them lose control and for their orbs to roll back into the sockets, so that I can clearly discern the whites. Then I know I’ve made them respond to me, even if briefly. Nothing gives me grimmer pleasure, than, well fucking with them. If they quicken the rhythm, I like to slow it back down again, to assert my ascendancy. If they are proceeding at a languid pace, I might well speed things up a tad. Make them toil for a change. It’s sheer bloody mindedness I know, but hey ho, that’s how I get my pabulum morsels these days.
Anyway, as I said, it’s how they gaze on you. And I choose my words carefully. They are not reflecting back any sensible response to my deep and meaningfuls. They are using my eyes specularly. For regarding themselves in. There is nothing two-way about this looking glass. Witness too the rictus grin when he espies my hollowed cheeks, sucking in scanty breath while containing his displacing hypertrophy. Oh how they love to take us from behind, or from the side, or our leg up over the shoulder, in order that they can ogle our jiggling pelvis and distending abdomen beneath their thrusts. Conveying to him, that the member lost to sight inside, is giving active demonstration of its still vigorous progress. Burrowing and stretching us visibly. Like some inside out version of the snake expanding its girth, to accomodate the contours of the prey passing through its tract. Even as I dumbly sway from side to side, in time-lagged antiphon to metronomic penile periodicity, I am returned to the world of myth and archetype, here in this land of myth and archetype. “For they cast down every man his rod, and they became serpents” (Exodus 7:12). Snakes routinely lid their eyes when they lunge to strike their prey.
The fleshy, glistening gateway back to paradise, that gives admittance into the female, also launches into the darkness and unseen grottos of the interior. Wherein might lay a monster, (a snake, a mongoose ?) waiting to strike. Yet surely the sinewy, elongated member that glides inside my orifice, is the one that is truly ophidian ? Does not the penis still emerge, like the man, all of a piece ? Intact. ‘No’, they protest, since it can no longer be seen and, as it is indeed as fragile and vulnerable as a serpent’s body, there are very apparent dreads that once disappeared from sight, it will be horribly mutilated. Why is it that actual teeth, never seem to present an obstacle to their demands to be deep throated, swallowed whole by our tracheas, which cannot disarticulate like a snake’s skeleton ? Moreover, how can they be armed with an image of incisored vaginas, when they hardly ever see our real teeth since they prohibit us from opening our mouths to speak and express our love ? Peradventure they are indeed correct. Maybe the redundant dentistry of the mouth has turned its back on enforced perpetual hibernation and gone south for the summer. At best, his proud flagstaff enters stiff (though not necessarily straight) backed, only to emerge flaccidly macerated. Victim of unseemly dark distaff arts within, that has greedily sapped the essence and life-giving spirit.
Yet I recall the febrilely pounding penii, far from fighting for their longevity (bad word), er endurance (worse, but you know what I mean), actually pursuing a different sort of integrity. Another type of salvation. Acting freely of its own accord. For it batters away as if it was a pneumatic jackhammer, or drilling for deep sea oil. This is not the patient, incremental body-walking consumption as practised by the colubrid devouring its prey. As embraced by our tender organs, maintaining his intactness for him as well as our own. Swelling to meet its bulk. The tell-tale bulge of our abdomens, (cellulite in actuality to both of our shames), until our essential juices complete their seething action and he boils over and rolls over too. Nourished ? Sated ? Whence they play possum prick. All flabby and lifeless, like the snake that feigns death. You toe it, roll it over, flick at it. Nothing. However, worry away at it long enough and it revives and uncoils itself miraculously. The snake that never dies. Uroborus is ready to go again.
What we actually confront here, is an ironic inversion. An imposture. A masquerade of male terror before some ridiculously fabricated female threat. Convulsively mocking us from behind this veil of disguised male cocksureity. This prophylactic against disclosing their true selves. Their true male nature. This is actually penis dentata. With its beady, unblinking eye. Steadfast pathfinder, ushering in offerings to its appetite, relentlessly scouring for sustenance. Bearing a hollow fang for shooting venom, innoculating us against what, I don’t know ? Our being ? Children immunise us from sharing any clout and knowledge in the world. The cock attempts to assert its rise and shine calendar over our lunar one. I give you also, the engorged hood of the cobra, some of which even spit venom like ejaculate. I mean they even have the gall to make it explicit in the name they confer upon one of the the snakes in the New World; ‘fer-de-lance’ - the spearhead. An iron-headed lance that cleaves out our very matter. In the mounted jousts of the bedroom, the lance keeps man at a distance, while he tries to master woman and upend her. A definite reach advantage, before engaging in close quarter combat.
Tracheas and windpipes are not the sole orifices they are forever seeking to seal. They are after consigning us to our own tenebrous depths. Immured in an abyss of inaccessibility. Walled up behind his monolithic custodian. His cyclopean overseer, lolling louchely over its twin smaller boulders, the blinking grin of one smug in the knowledge of his captive treats. And incidentally, with each plunge occluding and reopening the omphalos peephole from which we spun him. He can’t bear to set eyes on what he deems his demeaning origins. Since all he really aspires, is to have restored to him that which they mythically lent out to woman. That which initiated the primal, organic conjoining of male and female. That oh so costly, costal viniculum that binds us each ineluctably together. “Bone of my bone”. So each time he seeks to engage temporary union, he is additionally going excavating. Rummaging for that lost, forsaken shard of himself, offered up as the price of ending his loneliness. To meet his desire. Yet he is to avoid the all-consuming nature of her love and attachement. The internal landscape that engulfed and swallowed up a piece of his quiddity. An occult generation woven from his own very fibre. He desires her, me, she, but he surpassingly desires to snap the ineffable bind to all of us. He penetrates with the intention of turning us inside out. Entering me whole, calculating that he will be too swollen to be swallowed up permanently. To force me to regurgitate his indigestible essence. His indispensible ‘spare’ rib, to retrieve his attenuated substance. This is the only congruity he roots around for. In each and every commerce with his rebirth mother. He will only ever offer up a single sliver of himself and he even wants that back. Never to cede his whole self, to become a single, integrated flesh. But always to reassert disjunction and the preservation of his own solidity.
Okay then, so I have to press on from here. To garner some mastery. Some miss-tery. To salvage a space in which I can sequestrate what I demand from this interaction. It takes a certain leap of the imagination, but is pretty unerring. What I don’t need are the temporality of words butting into the proceedings. I don’t require them to mediate for either of us. “Thanks for the tour love”, or “Sorry darling, I’ve to be up early for the Booze Cruise tomorrow”. To assign and shackle the experience just past and the emotion of wherever we have emerged. The other side of the threshold we careered through, by blindly hurling our bodies together over it. Now I just want us to open our eyes. And move beyond played out carnal passion. I desire to inhabit this appulse. Coeternal for as long as humanly possible.
Yet it is a most precarious state. Balanced upon a hair’s breadth. It can easily veer off in either of two directions. And both represent a selfish involvement with only his own subject. After a brief lull, once he has regained the sense of his own boundaries, either he’ll likely crave more of our fleshy discourse. Or, an abstracted corporeality, that dozy, sated state of one who has both exhausted himself in the hunt and yet also feels both nourished and replete from the feast. I’m after a different sort of abstraction. A shared one. A palpable dislocation from all that we know. A perpetuation of synaesthesia, without the writhing of somatic mass. A genuine disconnection from everything extrinsic and quotidian, leaving pure connection with my partner of the moment. A sweep where together, we can create anything we like. Anything we can imagine. A pre-Fall Garden of Eden, when singularly man and woman existed for each other’s adoration. The Eden when Adam howlingly begged for a mate to end his gaping solitariness. That moment just prior to when the sibilant serpent introduced me to Damon.
For all the (relatively) involuntary sighs, grunts and groans, deep rent from our overloaded and therefore unmediated beings, the flesh cannot transcend its own circumscription.The gravity-laden physical bourn. The anatomical injunctions. Where flesh slops against flesh, with a gulp where the air is expelled between the suction of the twin heaving surfaces. I want, desire, to repose in a realm that is without edges. I yearn to be boundless. I want us to be borne aloft on that vacated air squeezed out, emitted from between us with our commingled stamp on it. In our horizons, we are to be the only two people extant. Without any dis-attractions to sunder us. For tonight at least.
Simon his name was. One of the few pre-coital words tossed beathlessly in my direction. Now, no longer one flesh, our torsos cloven apart. Our legs however were still intertwined. He, head slumped against my shoulder, legs splayed out at the diagonal. Me, stiff backed against the headboard, my left leg threaded under his right and over his left. My right leg bent at the knee, arching over his ankles. Hand propped on it, fingers buttressing a lit cigarette overhanging the sheet beyond my foot. I’ve no intention of bringing it to my lips. It measures out time for him, embers in place of grains of sand. The span of two such kindlings will determine whether he is reignited, or rolls over to sleep. I have found this chronometry unfailingly meters the male metabolism.
I glance over towards him, unable to determine whether the look in his eye expresses confusion as to why I am not putting it to my mouth, or suppressed concern as to the impulse of the hot ash. The modern day version of barefoot and blindfold. He tilts his torpid head as a prelude to inquiry, but I nimbly raise the index finger of my right hand and gently transect his lips. Uh-uh, if we no longer are able to retain the disarticulations of earlier, the reflexively unreflected babble, the sonorous squalls coitally quarried from our deepest seams of self, then better we are held together under silence’s shroud. It is paramount that we become alalial allies. It is the very heart of the matter. I shake my head for added emphasis and already I detect his purpose is lost in the undulations of my tresses against his exposed cheek.
Suffused in my ruminations, I was unaware that my murmuring Medusa’s locks had ceased their stroke. He was unconsciously rubbing his delicately flayed cheek and I ventured some sort of vocalisation would follow. Again I placed my finger across his lips and spiked their unsheathing. Tentatively he edged the tip of his tongue out against my tapered digit and hastily withdrew it again. He had tasted my resolve. Through the conduit of his lips, I felt his whole body flinch as he gathered himself up towards defiance of my circumvention of speech. I unfurled my middle finger and laid it with great deliberation next to her sister, across the crevice of his mouth. The muscles at the corners of his lips, measuredly retracted their charges into a crooked grin. My two fingers now like twin colonnades, bracing open his stupid wide aperture. I lent forward and mutely kissed the extended knuckles of my own fingers. That threw him somewhat. For as his startled lips were about to clamp down reflexively on them, I withdrew my fingers but maintained their sentinel trajectory. He was seemingly transfixed by the sight of two caryatids rigidly posted just beyond his orifice. He was beyond coherence right now. Veritably speechless. He jutted his chin forward and slithered out his tongue to reel my goading digits into his teeming maw. They waggled out of range. He extended further forward. My fingers spun away. He was shaping to cast again, when my left foot snakes across and presses him back down across his chest. He is about to protest verbally, when my twin fingers reassert their superintendence across his portals of locution. His body sags and crumples back to the mattress, though I can tell his mind has been wracked by a bolt of delicious tautness.
After a circumspect period, I detach both my leg and my fingers. He does not stir. I light my second cigarette and resume my vaulting of him. Leadenly, he rolls on to his side and scrabbles for something on the floor. He resurfaces with a burgundy towelling robe, (brought with him from home, since this is not the class of hotel which runs to provisioning them for guests, though the guests would be of the class happily to snaffle them), before reclining back towards the headboard. Half self-pinioned, awkwardly he shrugs himself into the robe. He gropes around his back for something, with clumsy, sightless digits. I surmise that he seeks the belt of the robe, but it is not there. He submits and his head slowly sinks back down the surface of the headboard. His long locks pincered by his crown, momentarily maintain their station like creeping ivy, before they descend to unseam his now less than immaculate coiffure. I fix him there, framed unflatteringly by the knobbly towelling. At the angle he lies, his glorious sixpack is almost completely submerged by the flesh collected under gravity. There is even the hint of a rucking of flabby skin just above his hips. Why on earth has he donned this garment and broken the spell ? I deflect my gaze and peer through the rising cigarette smoke as if for augury. I must have sensed something in the corner of my eye and snapped my focus back, to intercept him about to tumble words into the air. This time it’s my cigarette-cradling fingers that drape themselves over his mouth. His eyes start to water, from the proximity of the smoke, or from more internal fusillades I cannot be sure. I know the prosaic reason for the robe of course. The poor lamb’s cold. His lips are quivering. He manoeuvres them to siphon some superficial heat from my cigarette, his irises scuttling to their extreme margins scanning for any repercussion. Good boy, maybe we’re getting somewhere after all. I cant my face away so that my jagged smokey laughter does not exhale over him.
The sheen of sweat from our earlier endeavours, (which so sublimely varnished his sixpack all throughout) still sits atop his skin. But it has fulfilled its function and cooled him down, to the extent where his follicles currently stood to attention in an attempt to reinsulate him. They no longer glistened like the limbs of an insect dappled with pollen. Now such droplets threaten his tonicity. Indolent, mutinous beads with no sustained interdependence. They subvert him. He trusts to the robe to absorb and dismiss them. To tamp him back down and regather. My perspiration went west long ago. Evaporated, since my temperature’s still rising with the afterglow. I take pity on him and place my two unburdened fingers on his lips again. He is surprised, since he was not attempting to challenge me. But this time they do not crest the vertex, but bow in supplication at the lower ridge. They wait a while, before he hesitantly lifts the labium and gently skims the pads of my fingers. Emboldened, he grazes them with his gums, before eventually, he throws off his shackles and engulfs them. He laps at them with bulbous slurps and satisfied tiny suction pops. So I flick his teeth with one of them as scourge. He responds obediently and laps at them regularly, up and down in a spiral. First one, then his tongue nudges them apart so he can acquire the second. Like he’s chamoising minature mullions. Sure enough, he soon slots into a mechanical, albeit arrhythmic, insipid servicing. His thoughts off elsewhere, because he’s too blunted to assert what he wants. Wordlessly that is.
His problem, like so many of his kind, is he will not just live in the timeless moment. He’s all sweaty, He’s cold. He’s lying in a viscous, cloying pool (of his own making and one in which I am happy to cleave to me, to adhere me to the sheet. To anoint us together). And, he wants to prate about it. Ask asinine questions towards self-aggrandizement. Or to record and log proceedings. To minute them. To compare with the past and to carry forward amendments into the future. Where he has already projected himself. It was as if he was narrating the entire event. The circumstance. An episode. He is keen to march me back into the mundane and I am not at that double quick pace. He wants to return us to the formally structured relations, of speaker and listener. Addresser and addressee. Subject and object. Chatterer up and chatted up. The one inside and the one outside, of intent. He cannot wait for the sperm pellicle to mark out time by receding to a light, dried crust. There’s premature ejaculation and then there’s premature post-ejaculation. Cos intimacy ought not have departed with consummation. Our bodies had spoken, but they were still communing with one another in mute elation. Interwoven, flesh blended with flesh. Who knew or cared where you ended and I began ? So what of your slight edge on me in hirsuiteness, or my darker pigmentation ? It was all awash in the sensual maelstrom, the perceptual overload. Our fallible vessels, cause of so much anxiety in the workaday consciousness, had been temporarily uplifted, so we could quaff of mutual veneration and adoration. And we should seek to prolong those feelings for as long as possible. For eternity. To remain conjoined, even in stillness. Indeterminate and undifferentiated. Equals.
Until that is, you clad yourself in your burgundy fleece. Now our separateness is clear. Our demarcation evident against the hues of the sheet pointing up our contrast. A chasm between us, yawning in your case, yearning in mine. Me beached on dry land, you still shivering in the shallows. Conspicuously other. Another species almost. A reimposition of the way of things. You satisfied. Content. And me ? Trying to hold the moment. The feeling. But now solely dependent on my own creative resources. And yet far too aware of this reliance, so it slips from my grasp all the while. In closing the aperture of his reporting mouth, I have sealed the portal of our connection as if rolling a huge dolmen across the exposed fissure of his self. Occluded any and all light of disclosure from emanating from his hollow being. God damnit ! A role reversal yields the same futile outcome. My eyes hold all the unstinting power that Damon’s held, yet it prospers me in no wany, shape or form.
My cigarette had burned away to nothing. On the stroke of its expunction, he rolled over on to his side and curled into himself slightly. Somehow, his unsecured robe, his vinculum to life, had managed to adhere to him throughout his quarter revolution, his waning crescent, and still mantled his immodesty. I was now fully excised from his being, tossed into his moat of oblivion as the drawbridge of sleep was raised. I took a pinch of the robe between my fingers and lightly peeled it from his skin. I had a clear view of his ribs gently rising and falling with his quieted breath. The upswing seemed to take an eternity, as they manfully bore aloft their own weight against gravity. The downswing seemed to presage a relieving collapse, but each time caught itself from shuddering and instead coursed down in modulated repose. How does he sleep so easily ? I bent down to softly kiss them in salute. My lips left a glistening imprint upon them, which I watched undulate for a couple of cycles. Insufficient moisture to model a tidal effect with his zephyr breath. Then I leant over and smashed my balled fist into the centre of my mark and was rewarded with a satisfying crack. I took my reappropriated rib back from him...
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