In one of the porn videos the stud performed an ejaculation that could only be described as massive and sustained. We both agreed he had transformed this all-too-human phenomenon into an art: the body becoming something controlled to deliver an image of the beyond-control that is ecstasy. In the realm of a love that used to bind us (rather than pit us against each other in acts of mutual destruction and degradation) the stud constituted an aspect of the legendary. I recall nights in which our passion reached its climax in tandem with the stud’s.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Bathhouse Diaries
Bemoan the lover gives him no peace. Who said that? First thought upon hearing him weep. Forgive me, forgive me. I can make out the words despite choked throat. Pity, that’s what he wants. Is easy to give, but I’m not going to. Not this time. Too late, I said, but he wasn’t listening. Didn’t want to, I like to think. Easier to be nasty that way.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Bathhouse Diaries
When he left the table he heard it. A low-muttered word, an under-breath word. Slut. Or was it something else? Some other word, to judge by its tone, not of endearment, but one that was also best ignored. For there was the problem of survival, and the evening stretched out before him, a dark comfortless road he had chosen to pursue.
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