Remember the first time you ejaculated in front of someone else? The head of your cock angry, straining beyond the elastic of your underwear, above the cinch of your jeans, begging to be touched, begging, until it shook in reckless spasms, covering your smooth belly with your own sticky cream.
Did you blush? Did you smile? Eyes turned down, did you fumble as you tried to find something--a tissue, a sock, a bandanna--to mop up the slop of pearls.
Keep your eyes open, the lights on, get completely naked, surround the bed with cameras and mirrors. Monitors are more honest than memories. Eyes locked in eyes--the dark fire of adjoining cells--are stripped of words and one is left with uncertainty, swirling. Who are you and who am I? And what is this connection, the mixing of body parts, the merging of minds?
Some people copulate in dim rooms, under the covers, without ever whispering--NO MOANS--not even the lover's name. In the time before printing corrupted the race with pornography and ideas, this was the substance of the sexual dream. Darkness, the chafing wool, the sound of rustling and breathing, barely in control.
As for me, the wet dreams preceded everything, accept imagination. Their substance was a buzzing garden of fairy tails and bible verses, the etymology of hell. I was a bridge over a torrent pouring out of a chasm into the mill of a quantifiably quaint little town; I lay naked, and, hanging from my genitals, the bony red hand of the devil with his neglected yellowed nails grasped something about me; and he was swinging, slipping from my member until he fell--releasing me--his black and red and blue body plunging into the cauldron at the end of the cascade.
Or there was the dream of the bike wreck. Out of control, I was careening down the steep steps of an elaborate building erected 100 years before I was born. The steps gave way to a thorny garden, the garden to a mountain ravine. And the bike shook and rattled over a precipitous edge that landed in an orgasm, bloody knees and a sleeping bag lined with cum-drenched flannel.
The apes came many nights, chattering absurdly in the jungle trees, angry behind bars in an imaginary zoo. The gorillas, like the faceless demon, would use my penis as a vine or a jungle gym, slick and quickly tricked into whistling jism. Their wet, black fingers--their nails still nasty with the fecal matter of their last bad tantrum--would stroke and stretch the member with that animal playfulness that exists without shame. The apes came many nights, the apes and the skeins of red velvet and red silk.
The apes came many nights, chattering absurdly in the jungle trees, angry behind bars in an imaginary zoo. The gorillas, like the faceless demon, would use my penis as a vine or a jungle gym, slick and quickly tricked into whistling jism. Their wet, black fingers--their nails still nasty with the fecal matter of their last bad tantrum--would stroke and stretch the member with that animal playfulness that exists without shame. The apes came many nights, the apes and the skeins of red velvet and red silk.
Whether stretched on faceless women's thighs, a drum to rub against, naked again, outside on the steps of some classical monument. Or turned into curtains that were blurring in the windows from which I watched the men work, unaware of me, frottage in the bleeding pleats. Or the red silk that came slithering into the bed, replacing sheets and pillow cases with restless pleasure, until waking up to spoiled white cotton....
