The Old Religion

Vin enjoys a long, hard dick a bit more than the next guy.  For him, every bonafied erection is a light house, a watchtower, the ambitions of Babel--that yearning for communication and understanding (in defiance of God).  The miraculous architecture of desire offers refuge, salvation, safety.  Of course the penis he is sucking on  does excite him:  it is growing down his throat.  It calcifies in the warm, wet cave of his mouth.  But this goes far beyond mere titillation. Hardened voices in dark rooms move him through the sexual choreography that he has settled on.  With mouth and ass, he covets their members.  Here is the shaman's fetish stick.  Vin tries not to believe in magic.  But he has long known the power of the excitable penis.  His anxiety is assuaged by eight thick inches.  He might, in his more poetic moments call this staff of life, meaning.

Sometimes when Vin is sucking dick--kneeling on the ground, prostate on the bed--this unusual theology may enter on the lips of the other.  The man who's cock now swells in Vin's mouth, like some allergic tongue, might invoke Vin's calling.  Under  his breath, at first, then louder in drunken grumbles, the man will call Vin a cocksucker, "that's all you are.  That's what you were born to be."  And Vin will choke as he nods.  Through spittle and precum and cock, he assents and accepts the name.  A sound that conveys both agreement and enthusiasm starts deep in Vincent's throat and slips out into the air with the spit that drizzles out the corners of  his mouth.  And he sucks harder, deeper.  He wants to approve of this stranger's estimation.  An artist lost in his art, and infused with the animal's energy, Vin is focused on this one eight inch erection.  Spun in the blur and the heat of the bottle of poppers he keeps nearby, he is repeating to himself, "I am a cocksucker.  This is what I was born to be."