Rome is Burning
I can only talk about sex in first person because anything else feels uncertain. False. As though it has been forged by bad checks and hockey tongues of inconsequence.
With my sexuality as a mirror for the all the other arms of my being, I have learned much. I have learned where I fall, how I fall and mostly, how to either not get back up, or rise alive and dead at the same time.
One thing I have learned is that I resonate in this particular place where my body and mind and sexuality is a grand floor plan for an unnamable building of disgust. This is what I see with my eyes closed: My skyscraper of debauchery and living as a slum of everything filthy and fearful.
As a writer and a being, I live on the outskirts of my downtown. I live in the ditches and on the riverbanks where the sloths and invisible people do. Each morning I break bread with the homeless and the heartbroken, the beaten-down and those that simply prefer laying down to standing up.
Maybe, just maybe, I am the first person of my own disgust. Maybe I live in the broken-down places in the city I erected. Maybe I live in and out of the ditches I have dug, dirty with my naked limbs. Alone and unasked from the unsympathetic universe.
Very few have crawled more than a few paces with me. Very few people have even stood to rise next to me after a night of ashes.
Perpetually I am: On my haunches and staring up at the bleary oblivion above.
If you want to talk about perversion, true perversion, join this unformulated and clandestine group and be beaten to death by your own life. Otherwise, pay nothing to stand in your own closet unadorned.
Stand to rise. Alive and dead in the same breath.
Whatever you do: act. Stop your mouth long enough to rise, alive.
I have one such face that is this kind of action that I crave. Her name is bigger than a city. Hers, is the name of an entire civilization that crashed into the ash of history.
She, this island of civilization, is my perfect perversion.
She is every fetish that I enjoy.
She is disappointment rolled into its antithesis. She is the opposite of so many of my discontents: She says very little, but acts loudly. Robustly. Quietly, violent.
She is smooth skin. A swimmer’s curves. Watery, crying nipples and a Picasso ass.
We are laying in my bed in the dusty sunlight of an early morning. We are strung-out on lifetimes of sadness and throats strangled. There is a shower and water nearby, but instead of that, we are looking at porn.
The sheets are pulled up our torsos, making little mountains of hands on our own skin. We pull and prod at our unsleeping sex at the impetus of the filth and images before us. Inside us.
I crawl down to her bottom and her toes and I lace my naked legs in hers. I watch her eyes bounce and ache in delight of the filthy naked bodies on the screen before her.
I can feel her hand twitch and dance on her sex while I stroke mine. Ass to ass. Thighs to thighs.
The diseased beauty in her eyes makes me throb with supreme delight and I drool in loss of myself.
I know nothing about her. I barely know where she is from, or what she does for work. Still, we’ve known each other for some time now.
Apart from her apple bottom, I am heartfelt lustful for her on account of the fact that, simply, she tells me very little but acts out loud.
The first night I met her, she said little. She sat in the middle of a heated argument and said small, silent things. Then,
I was leaving her at her car when I asked her to ride into the night with me. Her eyes flickered. I asked her if she had preferences. Standing closely, she said very little, only: I like to be told what to do.
We broke bread together once and she asked me if I were addicted to sex. I nodded and somehow formulated the idea that I go into sexual comas. Spontaneously I was the teacher and the student, speaking to myself, and her:
While I spoke, she did not watch my eyes. I said that I go into these comas from time to time. I said that I black out. Lose my vision. Think only the filthiest of thoughts. Lose my self. Swim only in the darkest of my sexual seas.
I said, out loud, that I will do things in these comas that I never would, otherwise.
She did not respond to this fresh, fruitful thought. This precendence that would carry me for days afterward, into new levels of understanding.
She does not accept that place where words come from me, my mouth, to be so close to her sex. More than that, as we are flicking our sex in front of one another – I think that she will become violent if I come too close.
When my cock slides in her mouth it does so, to the hilt.
She gags. And gags.
And more than feeling perfect, I can only picture teary eyes.
I’ve grown tired of the vertiginous words that swim all around me. Words of promise and provocation. Words without legs.
But there are these small, fleeting moments:
We are naked in my bed. We are not talking about anything. There are no empty promises. Just boundaries of filth and lifetimes behind.
She is the kind of music I always want to play. Something about looking into that kind of darkness brings the breath back into my body. Somehow, her echo is the one I have always heard in my own sexuality. She is beautifully black. She is the disease I fear I have already fallen into.
My sexuality is my own death and life. Singularly, breath giving and breath violating.