There is something that speaks to the sold, unseen darkness in me. It tells me that I want filth. Complete filth.
This voice never lies. But something in its timbre tells me that I am being mislead.
This voice tells me that it does not matter how you get to heightened sensation. To divine pleasure. To car crash red and blacked-out ambulance light rides. This voice tells me that, whatever extreme they term it – bondage, masochism or pain – you will simply call it inspired divinity.
This cave wind of an alto voice is the same one which tells me that I love you. But, tucked away in its whispery breath is the truth that you should know: I love you best when I am leaving.
We are floating atop a black and white checkered floor. Barely standing, the brick walls have blackened cubbies. From the middle of the room it appears as though there are holes in the walls all around us. Holes for the reprobates and perverts alike. For where there is not dungeon light red on the brick walls, there are caves of darkness.
We are standing in one such cave, one such hole. We are so far away from the center of this strobe light floor. The light sweeps this underground like a broom. This demi monde, this underworld where the leather chains pace in celebratory circles and beckon the darkened night above us.
From here, in the basement of this church, the music whirls and pounds. It is the sound of industrial alley ways and black and, moments of my eighties youth.
The girl, the accomplice, and I are standing with our legs staggered. My sex on her leg and her sex on my leg. In the filthy light her face is white, her lips – crimson. I lean in…
From here, the voyeurism intersects with the exhibitionism and it is perfect.
The antithesis, the ivory girl with the platinum hair, is sleeping next to me. I am in her bed for the first time in a near eternity. A giggle in me almost surfaces while I watch her perfect shoulder slowly heaving in concert with her sleeping breath.
But I know, if I leave this bed before she does – in the least I said everything that a car crash can’t. After her orgasm, in the middle of the drunken watch wind down, I whispered to her with my hoarse, coarse voice: I am madly in love with you.
I do not know this love from my rational mind, nor from much more than a couple of baskets of experience. But I know this love. When I leave her, I taste it on the tip of my first cigarette and I see it in the highway lanes swerving endlessly back to my gray, morning bed.
Underneath the church, in blackened Sunday night church, the caged animals are pacing and spinning with intent. The husky thump of music is pushing us all into an uncultivated, erotic frenzy where leather and vinyl aren’t enough to quench our eye’s thirst, nor our sex’s hunger. But it is all there, down under.
At the instance of a song, she, my accomplice in this filthy feat, leaves my heated side to twirl and heave in the middle of the dance floor. Minutes later she returns and whispers into my ear: You like to see me dance with other people, don’t you?
I nod and she returns to that center so far away from my bloody heart.
I watch her tease and nod and reach for the sex outside of herself. And for this I am proud. I valorize those that push beyond themselves. Beyond their comfort, for some inspired divinity.
In the red darkness, I instruct my church girl to reach into my pants after she shoots more alcohol down her throat. And she does: She squeezes my cock. Then, hurriedly, we leave. For more filth awaits us.
I am not opposed to pushing our limits. I am not opposed to pushing our language to a place where the heightened intent is manifested by our very lips and our throaty obbligato.
She calls me daddy. She says, please. She whimpers and moans, urging me forward. Beyond thinking this dirty, I think it brave. In her timbre, I hear honesty. I hear something authentic; hers. Ours. Mine.
At her house there is a flogger.
I do not know this until the dirty morning light convinces me so, but the floor is filthy, strewn with pieces of her life. Books, clothes, boxes; and unkempt life. She lays down and with her perfect moonlit tits in the air, I begin playfully teasing her nipples with the leather fingers of the flogger.
Then, I whip her hard and intently. Devilishly. Deliciously. At first, she does not even flinch.
Before you: There is the girl and there is everything else.
There are matters of the heart and there is everything else.
In and out of all the rooms I have inhabited, I am searching for my center.
I do not know if love lives in that circle, or outside of it. I do not know if my love is enough for one. And I do not know if another’s love is enough for me.
I do not know my center. But laying next to her in the gray wakening of a snowy morning and I know that I feel a center rising, a little to my left. A little ways from the center that I had always pictured in my concentration.
Beyond her, outside of her – the platinum girl with the musical shoulder – there is the filth of trying to just make it through a day. The filth of an industrial world and commerce and making ends meet and bills piling up on a dusty table.
In everything is an element of just trying to find your center.
Smack me awake with your skin. Push me to arise into the life I always wanted.
Touch me as though you mean it.
Feel me, kneed me, as though you want me.
If you do not know the words, I am a forgiving ape. For the words escape my passions too, with mean and uncompromising frequency.
If you do not know the words, then tell me with everything else you have.
Leave me in limbo, leave me in a grave.
Leave me. Or love me. Leave me not in a place where so many live their lives: in the middle and uncertain.
Love me or leave me. If it is the former, then may it be forever. If it is the latter, then leave me altogether and your taste I never wish to know again.
Like my entire white body, you are burned before this stake.