Thursday, 20 September 2012
I have fucked men by the dozen, so often sighted the precipice of desire and feared falling off it as I have willingly leapt in complete abandonment. I have sucked thrusted kissed licked smacked and spit – I have loved and blown and penetrated the mystery of the flesh and I have wiped my tears and others’ and wiped my semen off countless chests cheeks faces crotches, I have compiled an inventory of fuck faces, sex noises and stroking techniques, taken snapshots literal and metaphorical of countless lips, bum-cheeks and wide open… eyes, wide open hearts are harder to immortalize in tone and colour, but the smell of a man burning with desire is generally fresh in my nostrils and renewed any chance I get by first-hand experience. Hard to believe how similar that scent is across skin types and body shapes.
Some fucks have faded but of most remain certain details terse and splendid in impossible resolution, guarded by my memory, well-trained at preserving itself and only occasionally resolving to blocking out or removing, for we have learned, my memory and I, that holding on is phase one of moving on and in any case, holding close only hurts to eventually please.
It’s all a game, a sport, an Olympic effort. When we’re doing it, gods and goddesses come down from above, they ascend from their hellish abodes in the netherworld to witness the closest thing to creation they see in us, they smile between pride and jealousy, who knows? They want to share wisdom, pass on theirs and apprehend ours.
The perfect man is profoundly aware of the paradox that dictates that we should overcome our humanity precisely when we indulge in it most.
The gods and goddesses are superhumanly conscious that of their curse, too. They nod and give away no little mystery, raining a tear or two: that being divine is far from a condition of sublimity lacking any and all needs, that perfection is achieved not in the isolation of a being self-sufficient and unchangeable, but attained through communion, juxtaposition. If not a group effort, at least a tango for two.
And since it’s of divinity we talk about, let me play god for a while. An unsurprising thirst, that of playing god, given that god started it all by playing man when he decided to become a man and like a man live and like a man die, only to become god again via resurrection, which shows how Jesus tries to win us over with confusion. And I thought you were a serious guy. Do you reckon it’s fair to play the game of three cards, gambling trinity just when we were finally getting somewhere with this talk of hate, with this talk of love?
So let’s play. ‘Cause god, you need a big bang. But I’m on top this time.
The life-conferring breath is mine: it smells of dick and it blows into my memory to forge the perfect man, made in my image, not yours.
This man will never fall from grace like dominos’ - he will not be banished from any heavenly garden. Instead he’ll take off from this earthly plane down here only to reach higher grounds, the playground of his peaceful and blissful flesh.
I want to see him plant the seed of knowledge for himself and tend to it, from sprout to tree, not put an apple in front of him and say I dare you! God, how immature! How jealous are you really of your own progeny? Is it because we are younger and sexier than thou? Is it because being human, having needs and having them fulfilled actually feels better than being god and not having needs at all? It must feel so lonely, up there in the sky with your arms folded, it must get so boring licking your self-inflicted wounds, holes in your hands and ankles where nails were driven through your suicidal flesh. So see-through, you attention seeking punk. Couldn’t you just be normal and look to attain transcendence with the hole you were born with? And the nail, you had one of those, too. Nothing to be ashamed of. Your daddy made it personally for ya.
But who’s your daddy now? That’s right, I am, and you want to get pen and paper out and start taking notes, because I have way more than ten commandments for you to live by, for you to break in infinite attempts to prove your freewill.
My perfect man knows exactly when to sit down and be my lap dog, my pal, my god. He knows he can only come in when I saw so. He knows I’m the one who decides whether and how we play with boners. My perfect man knows when to disobey and when to misbehave. Straying from the path is a given, and sinning is always permitted, sometime encouraged – if done with style, meaning with the awareness that sin is always just a parody of the lawmaker and his boring seriousness. But anyway, back to my perfect man.
On the first day I make his asshole and with it his dignity. The one circular muscle. I forge it humble and unafraid. The asshole of a perfect man is unprejudiced and imaginative. The asshole of a real man may not be enthused by the fact that it is potentially a two way street, but it will never recoil when pleasure tempts it. The asshole of a perfect man, condemned to always face down, will never forget where we come from and where we’re headed and it will learn that there are no such things as dirt, or morality.
On the second day I make his eyes. They’d be black, and glorious like the sky, and also glorious would be his astonishing ability to get hard and slide inside me only a couple of minutes after getting fucked against a window and spraying his load on glass and carpet. They’d be eyes clear in the early evening that redden gradually, the transparent eyes of someone who likes to get high and then go at it for hours.
Perhaps there’d be some small mystery about him, a surprise factor. Nothing creepy, just maybe something a little unexpected, like finding out after quite a few sessions that really he identifies as a bottom, even though he can screw me as expertly as few others have, switching gears like the motorbikes he rides. And what a ride…
On the third day I’d probably make his skin. Smooth like moss, soft like the surface of the moon and white like marble. Veins like bas-reliefs pulsating with the glory of life, I’d make his blood, the sap of us human trees, the fuel in our engine, the holy toughener that flows in all the right places at the right time. At the touch, he feels imperfect like sublime things do, like all things that perish. I stroke his forearms with my hands and kiss them with my lips to make sure he is salty enough, because there is nothing worse than an insipid mouthful. I examine his chest and his chin, looking for moles and pearls of sweat in the heat of creation, looking for odd hairs on shoulders or out of nostrils. Eyes locked we’d find in each other father and son, brother and reflection, and the courage to become.
I reckon by day four his personality has started to form and show. See how he holds his breath, arched back to shoot himself through life like a dart? See his head held high, his nonchalance and pride? See how his belly inevitably rounds with what some fool or other will label excess fat? I like him already, his unassuming demeanour, how a smile highlights what turns him on, how when we fuck he looks like a naughty child, happy in mischief.
When I create his cock and balls on day five I sit him down with those virgin eyes of his pointing my way to explain that the virility I want him to embody is soft and caring like a womb and that his manliness had better be as accommodating of other people’s desires and need as the earth is to the roots of a tree. The swinging pendulum between his legs is but a reminder of time ticking, not a head start over his sisters, by no means a means in life to get ahead, at most a head-job.
Creator and creation, we both rest on Saturday. It’s a big day tomorrorw.
The sun rises on my perfect man on day seven.
His skin hot with the fullness of life melts the morning rays that fall like ambrosia on his naked body, melts the sun like snowflakes at the touch – his hair, the colour of a sailor’s hair, ash-blond burned by harsh daylight and salt water, it sways imperceptibly in this vigorous breeze that blows from the mouth of the sky.
My favourite parts of a man’s body are those in between parts, the ones we don’t seem to have words for. I like to rub my nose in the coarseness of his hairy chest, I like to trace the inevitable path that leads from chest to armpit, from hand to forearm, from belly to groin. And what about the fragrance of a man’s inner thigh, between crotch and g spot?
From now on, we stop counting our days, and start living them instead, basking between lust and trust, between soul and spine. Gods had their fun. Now for yours and mine.