Prose: It

Tomorrow is the next first day of the rest of my life if I get through the night. Today was a good start to finishing so many things. Tonight I really need it.

If I could write a letter, the salutation might go something like “Dear You Know Who You Are,” or “To Whom Is Not Concerned:”. The body, my body, his body (of the letter) would go on to exclaim complaints about the aforementioned desire.  The it.

I could or would but should not have it ever again. The craving, or more appropriately, the addiction to this addict is troubling because of all of the trouble. Is it worth it – paying attention to the expensive investment that affords me so much pain and will leave me feeling spent at any cost? The rich luxury of lust from such an impoverished man, a man that has made me feel like much less than one, more and more as I think about it.

But the man is not it.

Tonight, right now, I want it. I care only about the import of all of those unprecedented sensations, that always turned to exasperations when the it turned back into the man. This is not to say (though nothing needs to be said anymore) that the man was not the cause of it, for he was the ruler or leader or follower of what it has become, and I owe it all to him, me being this impoverished.

I would love to fly with him, or it, despite my fear of flying itself, daring to take a skydive not really knowing if there is a safe landing ahead as I only have history to prove what the future will would be like. In those neutral places, the homes of my own, we separated peacefully, resonating how stuck together we were.

I want the only hole that I ever loved. That welcoming and foreign orifice with its curtain of auburn locks that captured my tongue and cheeks so many not so long and so long ago nights, where I was a captured and raptured by the encapsulating essence of this everything-I’ve-ever-wanted epitome. To be in that place, that place I pioneered, where so many others feared or had no interest to dwell, my Manifest Destiny, that clenched and uncorrupted opening – it would make me whole again. I want to make it slick with my spit, and have the soaked tufts massage the shaft and trunk of my peering phallus, though knowing full well I would enter at my own risk, that it risk of never wanting to leave it again.

I want it.

I too want it to dig my trench, in that unequivocal equal way, the give of the take and vice versa, the it that throws everything off balance because no one before has ever been so equipped to avoid the commonplace dreary of either/or. Both is what drove us to this madness, both, both of us, both the entry and the exit, the in and the out, the push and the pull, the give and the take, the it.

I want to be in it.

The warmth that comes from trying to freeze the heart, so the men can leave the room, even the beasts, and leave only it behind. I want the craft not necessarily identified to hone its skill on and in and all over me, over and over and over again (and over, and over, and over…).

I want the rush of not knowing what is next. I want the surprise of shock and awe and the sweet unsubtle pounds of flesh that are indecipherable when your mind is no longer your own. I also want the caressing comfort of knowing that there is no need for knowledge or teaching, that the uncharted territory needs no map, no guide, no navigator, no compass, only the advantage of being privy to it – thus making the perfect journey to far away places.

Tomorrow I hope I will have survived. Though there is no doubt in my mindless mind that when my eyes find some sort of rapid movement, the dreams will haunt me in a horrifically amazing way, with the it in full spectrum, and no possibilities of the man returning to what men do.

In slumber, there are no other dicks, there are no inescapable jealousies, there are no alarm clocks or jobs or logic or things that have to be done except the necessity for it. It and only it.

This craving is no hunger. It is the long overfed product of a spoilt child. The Life Force of sin and secret, the angle to the story.

It.

I won’t write that letter. I won’t write it tonight. Tomorrow is not that far away (certainly not as far away as it is). I won’t think of the salutation or the body, his body, my body against his body, or any body for that matter.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s