The boy’s on all fours before me. His fingers are splayed out to give him balance, as he slowly pistons his mouth up and down on my erect cock. A long ponytail of raven hair hangs over one shoulder—but there’s no denying his essential masculinity. Not with his muscular body, his lean waist, the two perfectly round semi-globes of his ass that are clenching and bouncing close to the floor. Not with that heavy, uncut Puerto Rican dick striking the floor like a drumstick.
I’m trying to find fault with his performance. I need something to nitpick. He’s not giving me any opportunities. He’s not grabbing onto my meat with a too-firm hand and squeezing the fuck out me. He’s not grabbing onto me all, in fact. He’s doing a steady, sloppy, slow back-and-forth on my cock, and licking out at my nuts when he comes in closest to them. It’s hard to censure him for that.
Then my phone vibrates. It’s in the pocket of my jeans, which he’d removed and folded and placed on a chair. Twice it rings. Three times. He’s still staring at me, rapt in his worship of my dick. I see my chance. “Well?” I snarl. He backs off me, surprised. “My phone’s not going to fucking answer itself,” I snap at him. I place one of my bare feet on his shoulder and shove hard. He doesn’t seem to know what I want him to do. In exaggerated syllables, I point at my pants and say, “Bring . . . me . . . my . . . fucking . . . phone. Key-rist. Stupid faggot.”
“Yes sir,” he says, scrambling. He scurries across the floor, pulls my phone out of a pocket already bulging with tens and twenties, and brings it to me. Quick as he is, he still can’t avoid the fact that the moment he puts the device into my waiting hands, the vibration stops and the screen goes black. “Here you are, sir.”
I stare at him like he’s insane. “It doesn’t do me any good now, does it? Is my phone buzzing?” I hold it out to him. “Well? Is it? You know what buzzing means? Como se dice?”
“No sir. It’s not buzzing.”
“Right. So I missed the call. All because of you. Fuck. Can’t do anything right, can you?”
“No sir. I’m sorry sir.”
Abasing himself before me excites him. It’s what he wants. What he hires me to do. His dick was erect before, but now it’s rock-hard and glistening. I can see a drop of pre-cum forming where his slit winks out between folds of foreskin. His eyes are just was wet and wide. Every time I curse in his direction, he becomes more and more excited. “Fuck,” I say, examining the phone. It was a quarterly courtesy call from Wells Fargo that I would’ve let go to voice mail anyway. “That was an important call I missed. You little piece of shit. You fucking little stupid spic faggot.” Every invective I throw his way only excites him. I can see his nostrils flaring at the insults. He’s breathing the way men breathe when they’re close to orgasm. “Jesus. I’ve busted open piñatas with more brains that you.”
“I’m sorry sir. I’m just a piece of shit spic faggot, sir,” he says, breathlessly.
“And?” With a tone of supreme irritation, I raise my eyebrow and look down at him from my throne on his most comfortable armchair.
“And I won’t do it again,” he ventures. I shake my head. Incorrect. “And I’ll try to do better.” Wrong again. “And I’m just a stupid faggot, sir. I’m a little piece of shit.” I crook the corner of my mouth and stare as if I can’t believe what the fuck he’s saying. “What, sir? Tell me.”
I gesture at my cock, which is lying between my thighs, slick from his spit but otherwise unoccupied. “Christ,” I mutter. It’s supposed to sound as if I’m saying to to myself, but I want him to hear. “I have to tell this stupid fucker everything. You better not stop sucking,” I warn him, as I hold the phone to my ear. “Hello? Hey man. Yeah, sorry I missed your call there. Nah, I’m not doing anything important. Just getting my dick sucked. Nah, some spic boy.” I pause. “He’s all right.” I drawl the last two words so they collide. Aaahight.
The boy’s eyes are so dilated with excitement they’re little more than two oversized pupils. He stares at me with fucking adoration writ plain on his face. The more I insult him, the better the blow job gets. “Nah, not that good. Remember that kid we let suck the both of us off at that bar? Yeah, the one in the Village. Kind of like that.” My conversation, of course, is entirely imaginary. There’s no one at the other end of the line. I don’t even have the screen on. “Huh? You want to see? Okay, hang on.”
I turn my body back so it’s squared with the boy between my legs. This time I actually unlock the phone’s screen and fire up the camera and point it down at my dick. “Fuck,” I snarl at the kid. “You ain’t no model. Keep sucking.” When I snap his photo, it captures the ardor my disdain arouses. I take four or five photos in all. They all show the face of a young man who is totally into his task of worshipping and servicing a big dick. I go back to my imaginary conversation. “Yeah, I got a couple. I’ll text you in a minute. Huh? He’s just some Puerto Rican cocksucker. Dime a dozen.” I pause, then snicker as if the other guy has said something funny.
While I do, I pull my dick out of the boy’s mouth. “Oh yeah. I remember that one. Mmm-hmm.” I shove him down onto his butt. Gesture for him to lie down on his back in front of me. Then I shove my left foot into his mouth and use the right one to stomp on the base of his cock. “Yeah, well this one’s not worth shit. He gives me two hundred to visit. Fuck, I know. First time he tried to pay me in tacos. I know, right?”
The boy is still staring at me with puppy love in his eyes as he slobbers over my foot. When I absent-mindedly grind my bare heel into his nuts, he sucks in air through his mouth, winces, and whines slightly, but he doesn’t complain. It just makes him lick up and down my sole faster and harder, using his broad flat tongue like he might on an all-day sucker. “Yeah, okay,” I say, wrapping up my imaginary call. “Sorry about missing you before. It’s the faggot’s fault.” I chuckle again. “Yeah, I don’t know how I always end up with the stupidest pieces of shit out there. Long as they give me their holes though, right? All right. Later, buddy. What? Yeah, I’ll text them. Just remember he’s an ugly motherfucker. Okay . . . later. See ya.” I pretend to click off the call, and spend a moment pretending to text the photos I’d taken a few moments before. Then I throw the phone down onto a nearby pillow.
I stretch out my feet, drawing up the right leg a few inches and letting it land on his nuts again. He gasps from the pain of it and draws up his knees to cradle my foot. “Who was that, sir?” he asks, removing my foot from between his lips.
“Is that any of your fucking business?” I scowl.
“No sir.” His dick is rock hard against my ankle. He pushes into me, excited. “I love that you talk about me to your friends, sir. I love that you call me names to your friends. Thank you sir.”
“You know what I like?” I tell him. I pick up my phone again and check my mail, like I’m bored.
“What sir?” I wait a while to speak as I continue to check my messages and open up Facebook to see what’s new. It puts him on edge. “What is it, sir? Do you like my faggot mouth? Do you want my faggot ass? Please tell me. What do you like?”
I move the phone to the side, as if I’d forgotten he was there. “I like when you don’t fucking talk at all.” He sighs, and melts into the floor. “Now shut up and suck my dick again,” I order. “That's what your mouth should be doing. Stupid fucking faggot.”
Though he doesn’t say a word for the rest of the time we spend together that afternoon, he doesn’t have to. Those expressive eyes of his articulate how much he exalts me.
Showing posts with label stupid faggot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stupid faggot. Show all posts
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Monday, January 21, 2013
Stupid Faggot
“Do I look like a stupid faggot, sir?” he asks. The boy is looking up at me from waist level. My cock is distending his left cheek. He’s got his yap wide open, his lips wrapped around my shaft. When he speaks around the inches, his syllables come out thick, slurred, and heavy, like he’s slow. Drool is trickling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes, dark as the night sky, stare up at me. They’re imploring me for an honest answer.
He’s been on my dick for a half-hour at this point, sucking it. He’s been curled up in a fetal position, lying on his side, nursing at it as deeply as he can get it into his throat. I lift my foot and kick him back so that he rolls over so heavily that the mattress shivers. “What the hell do you think?” I snarl at him. “Yeah, you look like a stupid faggot. Because you are a stupid faggot.”
“Yes sir,” he whimpers, looking at me adoringly.
“What are you?”
“A stupid faggot, sir,” he whispers.
“What the fuck was that?” I ask, irritated. “I didn’t hear that.”
“A stupid faggot, sir,” he says. This time it’s louder. More aggressive. “I’m a stupid faggot.”
“Yeah? And what are stupid faggots like you made for?”
“For superior dick,” he tells me. His fingers instinctively clutch for his own dick. It’s triangular in shape, wider at the base, short, and narrowing toward the tip. I use my foot to kick away his arm. “For superior white dick like yours.”
“That’s right,” I tell him. “Now go get me a glass of water.” I scarcely let a second pass before I roll my head with impatience. “Jesus Christ,” I snap. “Do I have to tell you twice?”
The boy hops up. His skin is the color of manila paper. He has a long ponytail pulled back into a rope that hangs to the small of his back. It ends just above his butt, which is small and muscular. He is a beautiful, beautiful young man. If I’d seen him in a bar, or supermarket, or walking along the street in his everyday work clothes, I would have stared at him in frank admiration. In fact, I do that now, as his egress sets those miniature globes of his ass revolving around an invisible axis. I hear water splashing in the sink of his miniature kitchen. A moment later he’s back, his naked body strolling toward me, then dipping as he approaches his bedside. He kneels on the floor and, holding the glass out with both hands, offers it to me.
I take the cheap tumbler and swig down the water. I need it, after all the talking I’ve been doing. The water’s cold and delicious. I let it cool the ache in my throat. But I have a point to make. “What the fuck?” I ask as I stare at him and then the drink in disbelief. “Don’t they teach you people what the fuck ice is, in Puerto Rico?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll fix it, sir,” he says, grabbing back the glass. He can’t take his eyes off me. He wears the grateful expression of a man who has gotten exactly what he’s wanted, and then some.
“Don’t you worry, papi. I’ll fix it for you, just the way you like it.”
Men don’t like to talk about this particular ghetto of sex, this shadowy neighborhood where so many dwell or wish they could play tourist. We don’t talk about it because of our aspirations to middle-class respectability, and this isn’t a nice place to visit. These racial and sexual extremes not how we like to think of ourselves by light of day.
Humiliation is a very real part of many people’s sex lives and fantasies, however. Pretending it’s not—just because it doesn’t fit in with a narrow and homogenized vision of the tame activities to which gay men should constrict themselves—does everyone a disservice. To do so propounds a limited vision of what we are, as sexual creatures.
Banishing humiliation to the shadows makes it only more mysterious, though. More desirable. If it’s something that only dirty men do, it’s where men will scuttle like roaches when they need to feel dirty.
Most people don’t realize how many men need to be treated like dirt, when the apartment doors are closed and the clothes come off. Upstanding businessmen can crawl on cold concrete for the privilege of being splattered with piss and called faggot. Black men can gasp and sink into ecstasy when a white man snarls the word nigger at them. Latin boys like this one can become submissive when vilified as a spic.
There’s a certain subset of so-called good people that becomes outraged by this sort of play, though. They clutch their pearls and declare they’ve never heard the like. It’s not the sort of thing respectable folk do. The people involved must be full of self-loathing. Or they’re mentally ill. They’re certainly not normal. Never mind that there are conservative forces out there who’d be happy to outlaw any kind of man-on-man sex—even the tamest—in the name of purging it from the earth. We’re all too happy to tell each other what kinds of sex we can’t have, too.
Fuck that shit. Men come to me with these fantasies because they know I’m not going to be one of the stick-in-the-ass naysayers. They know they’re safe with me. What’s more, they know that this kind of sex is play—and that’s exactly what it’s supposed to be. These men craving my foot planted on their foreheads aren’t freaks. They’re not sick, or crazy.
They’re our brothers.
“You know you’re just a hole to me,” I tell him, after I’ve sprayed my load in his ass. “Just a fucking hole. And what is a hole, baby?”
I’m eight deep in him, and his cunt is stretched to capacity. I fucked him on all fours—like the animal he is, I told him. He’s on his back now, his hands on his dick, tugging himself to a climax. I’m twisted behind him, my hips glued to his, as my meat gently slides in and out of his slick wet hole. He’s resting on me like a comfortable sofa; his head lolls back against my face, so I can whisper in his ear. “I am, sir. I’m a hole.”
“That’s not what I asked, you dumb piece of shit.” He groans. I can see the tip of his penis glisten with a new dime-sized glob of pre-cum. “I said what is a hole. What. Qué. You understand that, right? Qué?”
We’re both sweaty from the long afternoon of sex. His Harlem apartment is a tiny little hotbox. The radiator’s been hissing with steam the entire time I’ve been there. He’s gasping for air. His eyes are slits, behind which glisten obsidian. “I understand,” he gasps. “I don’t know. What is a hole, sir?”
“A hole’s an absence. It’s nothing.”
“I’m nothing,” he says, in an almost-echo.
“Good boy. That’s right,” I say, sounding almost proud of him. “You’re nothing. A hole only becomes something when it’s filled, baby. It’s only worth something when it’s filled. Just like you,” I say into his ear. My beard is brushing against his lobe. He’s shivering and sweating at the same time. “You get it now?”
“Oh god,” he’s saying softly, over and over. Beneath the thin layer of fur on his chest, his nipples are hard and pointed. “I’m a hole, sir. A hole. A fucking hole.”
“A nasty, worthless, faggot hole,” I tell him in a normal voice. “Say it.”
“I’m a nasty, worthless, faggot hole,” he repeats obediently. “I’m a nasty faggot hole, sir.”
He’s beating himself off furiously. His hand is flying over his dick so hard that his balls are flying in the air. “Shoot that pathetic thing you call a dick, you cheap little piece of shit,” I order.
“Oh god,” he says, as he melts back into my arms. His dick erupts and spews his load all they way up to his chin. He shudders against me, becoming heavier with every spasm. My mouth is full of his hair. His hands drift away from his cock and down to my thighs, where they rest lightly. His eyes are closed; his chest rises and falls, each breath almost imperceptibly slower than the one before. “Oh, papi,” he breathes in barely a whisper. “Thank you.”
And then he relaxes completely into me, like I’m a feather bed.
The world’s a scary place. People say and do ugly things. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes not. I understand why people hear the words involved in humiliation play and recoil—it’s because they’ve been taught from childhood how bad they are, how hurtful. What aren’t ripe old Anglo-Saxonisms are derogatory, even taboo. What kind of sane person would ask to have those flung at them?
Brave men, I tell you.
They’re men who choose to confront invective, to hear those derogatory phrases and refuse to run. Fuck, they don’t hear the words and slink away—they invite the slurs into their bedrooms. They face them down. They denature the ugliness and the abuse into something powerful and sexual, something pleasurable—what’s coarse and disgusting becomes, through their grace, something beautiful.
Something transformative.
Moreover, they’re doing so in a context that’s entirely different from where they might ordinarily hear those phrases. There’s a world of difference between being the skinny kid who walks down the hall of his high school and is forced to pass by a crowd of jocks snickering fucking faggot among themselves, and the adult who spreads his legs and looks lovingly into another man’s eyes as the top whispers the same words into his ear. Hearing stupid spic under the breath of a man who signs the paychecks is a world apart from choosing the man who’ll say it when you’re skin to skin with your limbs tangled among sweat-soaked sheets.
Someone who invites these powerful incivilities into his life is brave. He’s facing down those slurs on his own terms. He’s choosing when and how he hears them, who will say them to him. Not only is he saying I am what and who I am, but he’s adding a defiant cry of And even these supposed worst of words will only bring me joy.
How can anyone say that’s not courageous? That it’s not beautiful? Because it is. When someone wants to share that side of himself with me, it’s a gift of unimaginable magnitude.
I treat such gifts with the respect they deserve.
As for the nay-sayers, the clutch-my-pearls, those who turn up their nose and sneer: the names they call those men—crazy, self-loathing, sick—are as bad as any of the epithets. The urge to squelch everyone into their vision of correctness makes them condescending; it makes them as hurtful as anyone casually spewing a deliberate taunt. They reduce men of complexity into objects of derision. It’s fear that makes them do it—but when the result is the same as slapping them with invective, to what end?
There’s nothing to fear here. Nothing that any of us experience, or for which we dream, is truly unimaginable to anyone else. We’re all brothers, beneath the skin.
All men are equal in their slumber.
We nap together for the better part of an hour. I’m grateful for the steam from that radiator as our bodies cool. We’re glued together by sweat and spit and semen. My arms are curled around his shoulders and chest, my legs wrapped around his knees. In his sleep, he lifts his hand and lets his fingertips rest against the back of my wrist. From time to time they pulse, as if in his doze he’s typing, or playing piano.
He’s beautiful, this boy. The thin beard on his jaw grazes my own as he sighs and shifts and painfully peels apart a few inches of our flesh. There’s a smile on his face that makes him glow. When I look at it, I yearn to be the one of whom he’s dreaming.
Perhaps I am.
My own eyelids droop. I pull this boy closer in, holding him to keep the world at bay. It’s my unspoken promise to him. He’s known it from the start. Down, down into the gentle rise and fall of our breathing I drift, until I, too, am sleeping once again.
He’s been on my dick for a half-hour at this point, sucking it. He’s been curled up in a fetal position, lying on his side, nursing at it as deeply as he can get it into his throat. I lift my foot and kick him back so that he rolls over so heavily that the mattress shivers. “What the hell do you think?” I snarl at him. “Yeah, you look like a stupid faggot. Because you are a stupid faggot.”
“Yes sir,” he whimpers, looking at me adoringly.
“What are you?”
“A stupid faggot, sir,” he whispers.
“What the fuck was that?” I ask, irritated. “I didn’t hear that.”
“A stupid faggot, sir,” he says. This time it’s louder. More aggressive. “I’m a stupid faggot.”
“Yeah? And what are stupid faggots like you made for?”
“For superior dick,” he tells me. His fingers instinctively clutch for his own dick. It’s triangular in shape, wider at the base, short, and narrowing toward the tip. I use my foot to kick away his arm. “For superior white dick like yours.”
“That’s right,” I tell him. “Now go get me a glass of water.” I scarcely let a second pass before I roll my head with impatience. “Jesus Christ,” I snap. “Do I have to tell you twice?”
The boy hops up. His skin is the color of manila paper. He has a long ponytail pulled back into a rope that hangs to the small of his back. It ends just above his butt, which is small and muscular. He is a beautiful, beautiful young man. If I’d seen him in a bar, or supermarket, or walking along the street in his everyday work clothes, I would have stared at him in frank admiration. In fact, I do that now, as his egress sets those miniature globes of his ass revolving around an invisible axis. I hear water splashing in the sink of his miniature kitchen. A moment later he’s back, his naked body strolling toward me, then dipping as he approaches his bedside. He kneels on the floor and, holding the glass out with both hands, offers it to me.
I take the cheap tumbler and swig down the water. I need it, after all the talking I’ve been doing. The water’s cold and delicious. I let it cool the ache in my throat. But I have a point to make. “What the fuck?” I ask as I stare at him and then the drink in disbelief. “Don’t they teach you people what the fuck ice is, in Puerto Rico?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll fix it, sir,” he says, grabbing back the glass. He can’t take his eyes off me. He wears the grateful expression of a man who has gotten exactly what he’s wanted, and then some.
“Don’t you worry, papi. I’ll fix it for you, just the way you like it.”
***
Men don’t like to talk about this particular ghetto of sex, this shadowy neighborhood where so many dwell or wish they could play tourist. We don’t talk about it because of our aspirations to middle-class respectability, and this isn’t a nice place to visit. These racial and sexual extremes not how we like to think of ourselves by light of day.
Humiliation is a very real part of many people’s sex lives and fantasies, however. Pretending it’s not—just because it doesn’t fit in with a narrow and homogenized vision of the tame activities to which gay men should constrict themselves—does everyone a disservice. To do so propounds a limited vision of what we are, as sexual creatures.
Banishing humiliation to the shadows makes it only more mysterious, though. More desirable. If it’s something that only dirty men do, it’s where men will scuttle like roaches when they need to feel dirty.
Most people don’t realize how many men need to be treated like dirt, when the apartment doors are closed and the clothes come off. Upstanding businessmen can crawl on cold concrete for the privilege of being splattered with piss and called faggot. Black men can gasp and sink into ecstasy when a white man snarls the word nigger at them. Latin boys like this one can become submissive when vilified as a spic.
There’s a certain subset of so-called good people that becomes outraged by this sort of play, though. They clutch their pearls and declare they’ve never heard the like. It’s not the sort of thing respectable folk do. The people involved must be full of self-loathing. Or they’re mentally ill. They’re certainly not normal. Never mind that there are conservative forces out there who’d be happy to outlaw any kind of man-on-man sex—even the tamest—in the name of purging it from the earth. We’re all too happy to tell each other what kinds of sex we can’t have, too.
Fuck that shit. Men come to me with these fantasies because they know I’m not going to be one of the stick-in-the-ass naysayers. They know they’re safe with me. What’s more, they know that this kind of sex is play—and that’s exactly what it’s supposed to be. These men craving my foot planted on their foreheads aren’t freaks. They’re not sick, or crazy.
They’re our brothers.
***
“You know you’re just a hole to me,” I tell him, after I’ve sprayed my load in his ass. “Just a fucking hole. And what is a hole, baby?”
I’m eight deep in him, and his cunt is stretched to capacity. I fucked him on all fours—like the animal he is, I told him. He’s on his back now, his hands on his dick, tugging himself to a climax. I’m twisted behind him, my hips glued to his, as my meat gently slides in and out of his slick wet hole. He’s resting on me like a comfortable sofa; his head lolls back against my face, so I can whisper in his ear. “I am, sir. I’m a hole.”
“That’s not what I asked, you dumb piece of shit.” He groans. I can see the tip of his penis glisten with a new dime-sized glob of pre-cum. “I said what is a hole. What. Qué. You understand that, right? Qué?”
We’re both sweaty from the long afternoon of sex. His Harlem apartment is a tiny little hotbox. The radiator’s been hissing with steam the entire time I’ve been there. He’s gasping for air. His eyes are slits, behind which glisten obsidian. “I understand,” he gasps. “I don’t know. What is a hole, sir?”
“A hole’s an absence. It’s nothing.”
“I’m nothing,” he says, in an almost-echo.
“Good boy. That’s right,” I say, sounding almost proud of him. “You’re nothing. A hole only becomes something when it’s filled, baby. It’s only worth something when it’s filled. Just like you,” I say into his ear. My beard is brushing against his lobe. He’s shivering and sweating at the same time. “You get it now?”
“Oh god,” he’s saying softly, over and over. Beneath the thin layer of fur on his chest, his nipples are hard and pointed. “I’m a hole, sir. A hole. A fucking hole.”
“A nasty, worthless, faggot hole,” I tell him in a normal voice. “Say it.”
“I’m a nasty, worthless, faggot hole,” he repeats obediently. “I’m a nasty faggot hole, sir.”
He’s beating himself off furiously. His hand is flying over his dick so hard that his balls are flying in the air. “Shoot that pathetic thing you call a dick, you cheap little piece of shit,” I order.
“Oh god,” he says, as he melts back into my arms. His dick erupts and spews his load all they way up to his chin. He shudders against me, becoming heavier with every spasm. My mouth is full of his hair. His hands drift away from his cock and down to my thighs, where they rest lightly. His eyes are closed; his chest rises and falls, each breath almost imperceptibly slower than the one before. “Oh, papi,” he breathes in barely a whisper. “Thank you.”
And then he relaxes completely into me, like I’m a feather bed.
***
The world’s a scary place. People say and do ugly things. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes not. I understand why people hear the words involved in humiliation play and recoil—it’s because they’ve been taught from childhood how bad they are, how hurtful. What aren’t ripe old Anglo-Saxonisms are derogatory, even taboo. What kind of sane person would ask to have those flung at them?
Brave men, I tell you.
They’re men who choose to confront invective, to hear those derogatory phrases and refuse to run. Fuck, they don’t hear the words and slink away—they invite the slurs into their bedrooms. They face them down. They denature the ugliness and the abuse into something powerful and sexual, something pleasurable—what’s coarse and disgusting becomes, through their grace, something beautiful.
Something transformative.
Moreover, they’re doing so in a context that’s entirely different from where they might ordinarily hear those phrases. There’s a world of difference between being the skinny kid who walks down the hall of his high school and is forced to pass by a crowd of jocks snickering fucking faggot among themselves, and the adult who spreads his legs and looks lovingly into another man’s eyes as the top whispers the same words into his ear. Hearing stupid spic under the breath of a man who signs the paychecks is a world apart from choosing the man who’ll say it when you’re skin to skin with your limbs tangled among sweat-soaked sheets.
Someone who invites these powerful incivilities into his life is brave. He’s facing down those slurs on his own terms. He’s choosing when and how he hears them, who will say them to him. Not only is he saying I am what and who I am, but he’s adding a defiant cry of And even these supposed worst of words will only bring me joy.
How can anyone say that’s not courageous? That it’s not beautiful? Because it is. When someone wants to share that side of himself with me, it’s a gift of unimaginable magnitude.
I treat such gifts with the respect they deserve.
As for the nay-sayers, the clutch-my-pearls, those who turn up their nose and sneer: the names they call those men—crazy, self-loathing, sick—are as bad as any of the epithets. The urge to squelch everyone into their vision of correctness makes them condescending; it makes them as hurtful as anyone casually spewing a deliberate taunt. They reduce men of complexity into objects of derision. It’s fear that makes them do it—but when the result is the same as slapping them with invective, to what end?
There’s nothing to fear here. Nothing that any of us experience, or for which we dream, is truly unimaginable to anyone else. We’re all brothers, beneath the skin.
***
All men are equal in their slumber.
We nap together for the better part of an hour. I’m grateful for the steam from that radiator as our bodies cool. We’re glued together by sweat and spit and semen. My arms are curled around his shoulders and chest, my legs wrapped around his knees. In his sleep, he lifts his hand and lets his fingertips rest against the back of my wrist. From time to time they pulse, as if in his doze he’s typing, or playing piano.
He’s beautiful, this boy. The thin beard on his jaw grazes my own as he sighs and shifts and painfully peels apart a few inches of our flesh. There’s a smile on his face that makes him glow. When I look at it, I yearn to be the one of whom he’s dreaming.
Perhaps I am.
My own eyelids droop. I pull this boy closer in, holding him to keep the world at bay. It’s my unspoken promise to him. He’s known it from the start. Down, down into the gentle rise and fall of our breathing I drift, until I, too, am sleeping once again.
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