|
Light As Death (My Viscous Semen)
I loved Trish's straight black hair, cut even at the shoulders, ends slightly
curled inward. I loved the tickle of it on my chest and thighs. And her full lips too, the ones she used to vogue around the
swollen head of my cock, wetting me with saliva, her minutely oriental eyes--one sixteenth Laotian--languidly staring in elegant
pause, saying in her New Brunswick accent, "Baby, I want your cum in my moueewwth". Harley Davidson wings spread
between the distal knobs of her radius and ulna: I would stare at the tattoo as she circled her palm and fingers around me,
an erotic piston in rhythm with her mouth, and see the bizarrely creative collision of our lives. Her forceful, yet softening,
starts when ya kick it life. My endless search for...something.
And I'd laugh. Couldn't stop myself. I wasn't laughing
at either of us in particular. I chalked it up to nerves, my propensity for embarrassing behavior at the most inopportune
time. Trish thought I didn't find her attractive enough. In hindsight, my laughter was provoked by giddy disbelief--being
enveloped in the damp warmth of someone so beautiful. Maybe it was also caused by the look in her eye, one I judged to be
of false sensuousness, like when a woman squeezes a man's biceps to bolster his ego. Possibly, I resented its power, its ability
to make me project my viscous semen on her face and lips. I felt ashamed to ejaculate on command like a trained animal. It
seemed so apple pie, beer, and baseball.
In a dream, Trish took me to a sex club in Denver for dinner. A couple was there
next to us. When they left, pausing on the sidewalk, he tried to kiss her, desire twisting through his shoulders in a desperate
hope for conquest. The woman drew back and smiled--*but I don't like you that way*. Hidden feminine logic. Medusa in perplexity
growing tentacles in the pavement.
Trish looked at me. I knew she hoped I'd never act like him. I left my body, the denseness
of my physical casing suddenly too heavy for my fears. Although I didn't want to, I laughed with biting humor, unable to gauge
her protocol. My laugh was unlike myself, strangely nasal, not from my chest or throat.
A week later, I found myself
sleeping in the basement of a building across the street from the club. I felt a tickle on my skin: the wandering of little
rodentiae. When I cleared up I saw a dog, a terrier with a dying mouse in his mouth. I wondered how I got there, light as
death blown through the rafters, canine teeth and roll-over loyalty shredding the soft skin of hope.
|
