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taken
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*cut n pasted from my Word document so some of the punctuations morph into symbols. too lazy to edit la. enjoy !*
Condemn, retort, revoke, taken. Bottomless to the end of the tunnel. Take the pants off my bottom, lick my thighs. Throw up. Collapse. Let’s sleep. Enough for another day of tiring trying to fathom pleasure to its end. Again I remind myself there is no end to it, but still we pursue, driven by another swelling of animal passion, sometimes of love, sometimes of hate, and always with aggression. Fuel it is. Scratch for scratch, bite for bite. Lick the tears from my eyes, lick my eyes. Take me again, take me further. Drive me, drive me on and beyond. The heat is never cooled by the outpourings of our sweat. Is there anything beyond the climax – or is it in the buildup, the adrenalin to the point of explosion, only to retreat, to circle around the point, enticing with more desire, more screams, more reaching; take me, take me again.
Faster, harder, stronger. I want to bleed this time. Tear my skin, rip it. Mix the blood with your sweat and my tears. Take my juices, turn them red too. Smear me in the blood, let it reek of our passion. I’m clinging to you, my fingernails are digging deeper. I feel a new liquid. You’re bleeding too, thick and cool. I lick my fingers, the taste is new. Turn around, my tongue flicks across the marks. It continues to flow. We’re both vampires now. I feel another coming. Hold it, don’t let me slip again. Drive, carry, keep tearing me. Rip more hair from me, I too am now marked on my back. tear, tear. Take me so far that the pleasure returns like elastic. Keep pulling, don’t be afraid, stretch it further. Contort, strain your muscles as hard as mine. You’re quivering; keep pulling.
Scream, light, reality. More liquids. Shaking, cold sweat between us, let’s sleep. Talk is for later, passion must be left pure, untainted by language. From pleasure to dreams; it’s more than human. I see you again, tall and naked. Your body shines with a glow of knowledge. But this time you’re crying, the tears are forming puddles around your bare feet. The cold water laps against my knees as I pray for you. God disappears with you, and I am left with your sea. I can’t swim. The waves are getting stronger, I drift, across time and through waters that get less salty. You pull me from the water, you’ve grown your hair, but it’s gray. I’m slipping, hold me! Hold me! The water creeps up my leg, across my belly towards my chest. I am lost. Your laughter fills my ears. But I’m awake. You’re on the phone. Who is it? Just a wrong number. Sleep. I can’t. I get up, I need to piss. There I am in the mirror, still the same. There is blood on my thighs and across my face. I watch as it spirals down the sink. Blood from passion, injury or waste is still the same blood. Red. There’s blood in my piss too. A little, nothing to see anybody about. I wonder about B, do you have blood in your piss? Or just in your shit? You’re still warm – the passion is still there. Fuck me like the missionaries did all those natives. But slow, as if god is watching, and each thrust tears another feather from his angelic wings. For hours we rock to and fro. The dryness forces us to stop, the tube is empty from last night. I get up, awake. We both drink coffee, black. We talk about the relationship between being and pleasure. We can’t live on pleasure alone, but without it we couldn’t conceive of ourselves as wanting to go on. We wonder about the loveless others, the faces on the trains. They can masturbate. But to free pleasure from guilt is such a struggle, that masturbation seems to make it worse. But does that pleasure need to be sublime? Can’t we all just have sex-o-meters beeping on our lapels. I want to fuck someone in the arse, and you want it there; the beeps coincide. We fuck. The train would be full of groaning, naked bodies. Even the driver would be getting a vicious blowjob. It would be beautiful; but nobody dares to look.
Nervous, feeling the restraining ring on the right hand finger. Guilt again. I want to fuck you in a train I say. Tonight when you finish working, I’ll be on your train, last carriage. Don’t talk to me, just fuck me. Is there any coffee left? I have to leave, I’ll see you tonight. I sit in the bus and write down my thoughts from last night. I don’t we’re getting any closer to anything. I still think it’s in the build. Something unravels thereafter. I want more blood, both of ours. Let’s take a stranger on the weekend, a virgin if possible, either gender. The world flashes by: advertisements, more bikinis and cigarettes. Cunts and cocks. More repressed sex. The next bikini lady has ‘sexists’ sprayed across her boobs. Somebody is having a little daring fun. I smile to myself, the first time since I saw the two schoolboys fucking in the park. Cute. I wanted to join them, but their adolescent cocks spewed their young, hot cum too soon. And they quickly zipped their flies and left. So I kept walking, still smiling. Someone else presses the bell, and we both get off. I lke to swim on Tuesdays, the pool is always quiet at this time. I enter the pool, and begin to swim my laps. The image of me drowning keep filling my head, and I lose my stroke and my breath. I come up for air, spluttering. The girl in the other lane looks at me, a naïve concern on her face. I smile, but say nothing. She continues, as do I, a few strokes behind her. The image comes back. I push through it, swimming on, turning.
My mind is now clear, meditation mode. I can relax, this is what I came for. When I’ve had enough I get out. In the showers I start to masturbate, but I can’t orgasm. I give up. The toilets still smell like piss when I go to put my clothes back on, probably some kid scared of the water, or the size of daddy’s dick. I’m finished, nothing to detain me. The sun is out when I get outside, I feel the warmth that only the sun brings. There are others enjoying the sun, mostly old ladies with their hip braces and shopping carts. They sicken me. They should be cooking biscuits for children. But I let them be, no abuse or stones today. I lack the energy. We need more lube, I remember. There’s a dirty sex shop a block from the pool. I walk there, past more old ladies and their musty cunts. Three schoolboys are outside the shop when I get there, sniggering. What do you want? I ask. They hand the sweaty money over. They’d obviously been there a while, amateurs. I go in, nod to the guy. I grab a tube and some cunt rag, more than their little minds could imagine possible. They should just ask some girls, it’s far cheaper and better. Fuck em. I pay. The boys are hiding around the corner, still as scared as shit. They take the brown paper bag, stuff it into a backpack, and piss off. Their mothers’ll be washing cum stained pants tonight, and asking questions to themselves. Surprised that their little boy has in one step grown up and become a pervert, one hand in the pocket stroking the flesh. The other masquerading civility like the breaking voice. She washes them anyway, knowing that there’s years of silence to come. When I get home I start writing the article for next week’s edition. After I finish the first thousand word draft, I leave the computer, take of my clothes and sleep.
t
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listenin to : nirvana - rape me ( yes i am in love with this song )
