Sex and Death
Sex rides bareback on the horse of death and I am straddling a massage table with a girl between my legs. There is a girl on the other side of her, sucking on her nipples, kissing her neck. Their cunts are exposed to one another. Their legs are interlaced. There are vultures standing around us, watching.
Even the guy sitting behind the girl that is prodding and devouring my girl on the table has raven eyes. He is stealing touches of my girl’s thighs like he is stealing meat off a carcass. Thighs. Ribs. Breast. Meat.
To my right there is a man standing behind his girl. Her shirt has been pulled up and he is fondling her tits, watching us. Another couple stands next to them, again – watching us with hungry eyes.
And that dark place inside of me is fulfilled. Like it came in through the veins, hard and saline. At the impetus of drug, my adrenaline glands swell with delight.
We are meaning-making machines. Like we’re baby making machines. Like we’re death machines, alive.
Just like making babies – those little legacies – our bodies were also built for one thing: death and dying. Always moribund we are in our peacock strutting.
Like you: I am always groping for meaning in my life. In other’s lives.
I have no God and have been seeking something as a replacement for as long as I can remember. Like the heroin junkie, I use my drug of choice to elevate me higher; to pad my fingers on the pulse of God.
Like the heroin junkie, I have used my body to take that drug.
But unlike the heroin junkie, I have used sex as that drug.
We came for adventure. It is why we are together at all on this night. It is why she is even wearing this short skirt at all. I haven’t seen her for ages, but adventure was what we both begged for.
She wants two men. At once. She wants a flood of the masculine, but I know she wants something more literal: she wants swords and blades and the unforeseen taunt of blood. She wants a full human experience before she dies. She wants something to make her eyes roll into the back of her head.
She is like me. She is not afraid of taking up space on this sharp edge. This slippery, rounded corner.
She relishes the darkness in the crevices. I can taste it on her breath.
Next to the massage table is a hot tub. There are naked bodies configured together in the heat of the water. In the dim red light, the bodies in the frothing water touch and suck and take consolation in their fleshy desire.
She has never seen these things: bodies sweating and pounding together in feverous chills. She has never seen bodies entangled like this. Not now and with everything sexual breathing so explicitly and raw. And it is surprising that, while there are beds and condoms and porn and cabanas all around us – only an hour ago there was only nervous, drunk conversation. Transformed in only minutes and there now are naked torsos everywhere; flesh over the top of clothing and through undone zippers and buttonholes. And reaching into it all are hands and fingers. Tongues and cocks sliding into hot openings.
On her neck is the scent of sex. It is from the Brazilian girl that is tangled in legs with her on the massage table. This other girl is licking her, sucking on her nipples.
Over the shoulder of my girl, the hungry Brazilian girl kisses me. But I pull away as though the intimacy was stronger than sound. It’s the pungency. Her breath, her wind is hot, and stale. Like a frozen, sweaty breeze it wreaks of sex. And more than that, the Brazilian girl that wants me to finger her cunt smells like death.
There is another girl that is standing next to the massage table. She is kissing and touching everybody on our island of a table. Leaning-in and she offers my girl a double-dildo. It comes from her purse and even I am surprised by this large cock sight – from such a small purse.
The girl leans up against the table and the guy she is with unbuttons her pants.
In the composition of the light washing on them, this sight is perfectly hot. It is perverted no more than a human body is: the girl’s jeans are falling down her hips; his hand is digging down the back; her skin is glistening like watery fire in this red light.
Sometimes I fantasize about the dirtiest thing I can. I attempt to come-up with a scenario that is the filthiest. Darkest. A situation that doesn’t engage me immediately. But rather, I crave a fantasy that, in its sophistication, pushes me to analyze and cognate and drop into thought to such a fathom that, for minutes at a time, I am unable to surface for breath.
She kisses me on the neck. I am tender with the lack of sensation of so many weeks behind me. I am weak at the touch of her tongue.
We meet lips and my adrenaline turns to rust. I can only think of the sepia actresses of the golden age. I can only think of watching old films and laying in bed all night long, naked, with wine and telling life’s stories until dawn comes with someone that I want to love.
After awhile of awkward body poses on the massage table, we move on. She wants to see something else. She wants to fulfill her fantasy. Like me, she wants something dirtier. Unholy. Unseen.
I let her take the lead. We are comfortable now. Expectations have dissipated and she is, like me, safe. I watch her lead me around. And when I close my eyes I sometimes think of falling asleep. Waking-up and rolling over to somebody that I want.
Here, in this sex club of debauchery manifested and all I can think of is love.
She has my cock in her mouth. We are next to a gigantic table that is tangled and teeming with masses of naked skin. There are groans, rolling movements and overall, the skin on the dark leather looks like a writing sea. A storm of human water.
Only a long while ago and I would have been intoxicated by the sight of this: naked bodies around me, heaving and gyrating in hot delight. The only ones in clothes are watching all the cabanas around us, the beds, the couches, the corners. There are couples sharing their lovers with starving mouths as pulsing sexuality moans and cries all around us in huddles and puddles. Drips and drops. Smacks and slaps.
At first, I am throbbing. Hard. I am in her mouth and wanting to pierce her skull with my cock. Then,
I am drained as though my feet are a grate and all the liquid life inside drains into the city sewer below.
There are naked bodies around me and I can actually taste the Brazilian girl’s death breath on my tongue.
Moments like these make me want to live a normal life. Have yellow pedestrian moments. Wake-up at 8 a.m. and go to work. Have lunch at noon. Pick up some milk the store. Mow the lawn. Spy the big blockbusters at the movies on the weekends.
I bend her over the black sea of humanity. I lean her into the mass of heaving bodies. I dip my tongue into her heat and for the first time that night I am afforded a taste.
And she is beautiful. Feeling her buck into me and I am lost in the thought that:
To possess the aptitude to bounce playfully off the springboards in your life is an undervalued skill. But this girl, on this night, has shown me so much. She was attentive when I needed her to be. She was reverent. She made me feel safe in the same way that I prayed I had made her feel. She was curious. She had never seen anything like this:
Cabanas full of beds and people and whimpering and bodies smacking together in raw sensual fear. She had never seen people bent over the bar, taking everything another had to give, from behind.
And she dove-in: on the massage table she kissed the Brazilian girl with death on her breath, but did not go down on her. She kissed the other couple that became entangled with us.
And so now there is a boy standing above us. And as I am sucking on her for the first time, at the end of our long night – I push her toward him.
Apprehensively, the boy’s pants fall from his hips. His cock jumps out. And slowly he moves closer to her mouth.
This is what we were heading toward all night.
Once her lips wrap around his cock, I feel the chain complete. I am this much closer to humanity. Over my shoulder is a couple, peeking-in. Touching each other. Several more bodies close-in on us. They touch, closer. They breathe, deeper.
I am naked. My pants are at my ankles. I spin her around and my flaccid cock slides in and out of her mouth.
And all I can think about is that I am as far away from love as I ever have been. I feel something slipping away in the same rhythmic pulse that she is taking me in and out of her mouth.
I want to give her a full experience in so much as I want to give myself a full experience. An authentic experience. And in less than ten minutes, after the boy has buried his face deep into her cunt, I will pull-up my pants and we will leave.
I understand why we value freedom. I know that liberty means choice.
But I also understand our obsessions with these rights in so much that we are living – bound by sinewy material – in a body. We are living in our tomb.
Since the time of the Greeks we have built our rational culture on the notion that we can reach for the world beyond us, toward the world of forms and everything spiritual. And we do this through thought. Through pushing our minds in experiment and formation, as hard and as abstractly as we can. Implicit in this same notion is that we do not get to a comprehension of the bigger worlds above us through our body.
Our body means decay. Our body means prison. Our body means death.
I have rewound the movies of my life and found myself fucking my way toward night in days that I have never even known the sun of.
In all of my sunless days, where I bask only in the rays of silent retreat and sweaty summer sheets, I have never known a greater heroin than sex. I have never known why I sought my intoxication in the needle of sexuality. But in this bending from love to lust, from the heart to the cock, from the silent spaces I inhabit in the bustling of bars and parrots talking – I am no greater than any lesser being.
I am a death machine, alive.