I am with furious with the world and let my night lead me to your bed of ashes and cigarette smoke.
I follow you down the hallway into your hollow room. With each step the light lowers and my hunger for pummeling something near me just to watch it fall rises in delight. Just because you are near, I measure my fist in relation to your back, your spine, your head, your nose. I want to make you fall if only because you are a woman and, because of that, you are also the representation of my sadistic contempt.
I am hissing with this hunger.
When we were on the couch, you thought I was giving you pleasure. You thought I was fingering your cunt. You though I was tickling your clit. But I was doing little more than stealing as much as I could and measuring your lifeforce through your cunt with my fist and my fury.
As we crawl onto your bed, I am thinking about pounding you through the bed. I am thinking about fucking your legs back until they snap.
My fury is so blind and invisible I can not even speak its first syllable.
Then, we kiss…
And somehow that black veil raises its hell from my eyes. It is then that I realize I came only to be touched. That, this is all I needed: to be touched. That, this is all I have wanted: to be touched.
In my fury, I have forgotten about the simplicity of a hand on my chest, measuring my heart’s loping gait. Or fingers laced in mine and engorged lips on my bicep.
There is something perverse about confessions.
I have had to confess many things in my life. As a deviant youth, I was afforded lifetimes of experience because of my libraries of transgressions and subsequent confessions. Even as an adult, I’ve hosted symposiums full of simple confessions alike.
There always was, as there is to this day – a peculiar rush that floods my body, when the time comes to confess. To be even more honest, I have learned that as I am speaking my confession, I am typically only eyeing the threshold instead of hearing what I am actually confessing – that threshold which immediately changes upon the utterance of the confession. This threshold is that delicate place where the blood leaves the body. This is where the music dies. This is the beginning of the sense of complete loss. Profound dread. This line where everything changes, this is what I crave in confession.
This threshold, this change, this confession is the perfect act of violence.
We are drunk and spring is supposed to be arriving any day. The sound of your laugh in the complete silence above the rustling of sheets and clothing being peeled off our aging bodies, is sweet – as though it is somehow transformed. Titillated by the hands of something unnamable…
We talk about Latin lovers. Minutes later and we are touching, prodding at our now naked bodies and I remember what my Latin lover showed me. And I want to share it with you. But, I stop in half-motion and lay back into the bed. For there are some things which need their secrecy and shade to grow.
Maybe this is only an excuse – for the truth is that I don’t want to share anything with you. This is not about giving everything to you. This is about stealing a little for my self.
Certainly, you have your ideas about who I am and who came into your bed at all. This when you don’t see the invisible thresholds of the most selfish man in the universe and everything that I have lost, been raped of, and left behind out of stupid ignorance.
Once we begin touching – really touching, the black storm drains from the strangest of places: from behind my knees, the crook of my elbow. And quickly, my fury dissipates as we crawl into one another, naked and locked in some perfect human puzzle.
It is then that I realize that sometimes this is all I really need: to be touched. Skin-on-skin.
I do not whimper, but a tear streams from my eye and rolls off the far side, away from you.
When you wrap your body around me and take me all the way inside, I am stunned at the sensations that flood my body. It’s as though I have jumped into the shocking frigidity of some great, unnamable ocean. Your touch is wholly new and I can feel you in every vacant space between my fingers.
For a moment I think about the bliss that has invaded me so violently. We push and pull at our symphony of want and restraint and boundaries and everything stolen from our lives as you writhe and gyrate while I am sucking your juices from you. Like a thief, I am pulling life from you. Juice, from you.
Your legs squeeze my ears, blinding me. Alas, the magic trick is complete. You don’t know me and I know nothing about you except for this tattoo which circles your stomach and that empty place where you were once able to give birth.
In the morning you tell me to come inside you.
Where love is the most selfish emotion that we own, I can think of nothing more violent. I can think of no greater gesture, to come inside you – as if my come is my scream and the sound of our bodies pounding furiously together is all the applause we will ever receive. So, I fuck you longer. Harder.
I watch your stomach rise and fall, the muscles flexing and flinching, polished as though you were bred for this. As though you were bread for my hunger. Meat for my table. Lessons for my life. Sustenance for my growth. A knife for my death and a grave for my rotting.
More than likely, I hate you. I despise everything about you. If not now, soon. I will – hate you – soon. In the morning, you make lamb sausage and scrambled eggs and coffee and we eat this at your dining room table. But it is snowing outside and I begin to seethe again.
But you cannot see this. This darkness. Where I am burnt. Nobody has seen this. For I have confessed much, in front of courts and classrooms of eyes and ears – but not one person has ever come to this conclusion. Not one person has ever even slipped with mention of this feeling that drives the pounding of this meat, the devouring of this nasty emotion. I have walked for years to stand here, for this confession:
In that same way that a narcissist possesses a dark side of inadequacy beneath – I too hate so much around me in that same way that makes me punch every mirror I pass.
I have pointed and fingered and fucked full of blame those that wear their anger on their beard like a unfinished meal – all when:
In the slushy remains of winter, where spring and green should be – there is only sloppy snow. A cold day. And my confession that I am the angriest man I know.