Rain Down

I ring the bell three times as arranged. The door release clicks and I push the door open and enter the building. I make my way up to the first floor and the door to the flat is open, as arranged. The flat is in darkness, but for an ultra violet glow from the bedroom. I enter to find a naked man face down on the bed. He sits up, picks up a joint from the bedside cabinet and lights it, taking a long slow pull before handing it over to me. I unfasten my trousers and step closer towards him, taking the joint. He slides his hand through my open fly and plays with my cock through the fabric of my jockstrap. The wind makes the blind throw itself against the window, emitting a rattle. “Nice one”, he says as he feels my cock stiffen under his touch. I push my jeans down and he pulls my cock out and slides it into his mouth, making me groan. I lean across to place the joint in an ashtray before peeling off my t-shirt.  The man takes a sniff of poppers and hands the bottle to me. My nervous system crackles in flames of animal nitrate. I reflect on the brain cells I’m killing, feeling each one pop like a blown light bulb in my skull. The universe becomes a place I can live in once more. He sucks all the way down to the root, right down to the metal of my cock ring. I spiral with pleasure, sliding along the curves of the spiral till I land in the centre with a splash. I push him back onto the bed and climb above, thrusting into his face with my hips. He moans with pleasure as I feed him, as arranged.  I slide out and slide my body down across his till my chin rests on the top of his shaved head and I stay like that for a moment, feeling just enough tenderness to consider planting a kiss on his crown, and just enough restraint to hold back. I roll over onto my back next to him, feeling myself recovering from the high, floating back into my body from the white light of orgasm. “Fuck, that was hot”. “It certainly was”, he says, licking his lips and sitting up to get a cigarette. My fingertips glow from the UV, emitting their own light. I wonder what it could possibly signify, this feral hunger that pushes me towards this. During the long walk home these words emerge like bubbles and I write them down for someone to read, someone like you. He has five more men due to visit him throughout the night. What are the secret griefs of wild and unknown men? He walks in the door and falls straight to the floor, belly pressed against the boards, and begins slurping from the dog bowl of piss you have placed there.  He breaks off to look up at you and ask, “Does sir want me to drink it all?”   “Yes.” You marvel at his submission, his desire to be degraded. It fascinates and disgusts you. Short-term memory includes forgetting as a process. You pull down your football shorts and pull aside your jockstrap, releasing your semi-hard cock, and then you watch him kneel at your feet and hold the bowl up to his mouth so he can drain it, with a delicacy that belies the moment, in tiny bird sips.  “Good boy”, you say when he has finished and placed the bowl back down. You push your cock into his mouth, right down to the root, making him gag and choke, which makes you harder. You withdraw and slap your spittle-slick prick against his face, and he groans.  You turn around, and present your rump to his face. He buries his foraging tongue in your arsehole, licking it, eating it, attempting some kind of total penetration, as if he could crawl inside and sleep on the moss there, die there. The veneration I feel for that part of the body and the great tenderness that I have bestowed on the men who have allowed me to enter it, the grace and sweetness of their gift, oblige me to speak of all this with respect.  It is not profaning the most beloved of the dead to speak, in the guise of a poem whose tone is still unknowable, of the happiness he offered me when my face was buried in a fleece that was damp with my sweat and saliva and that stuck together in little locks of hair which dried after love-making and remained stiff. You turn around and hold out your cock, uttering the single word, “toilet”. He holds his mouth open whilst you piss into it a steady jet of warm, clear liquid, which arcs from your body to his body, from inside you to inside him, this circuit of pleasure and waste that constructs its own economy within this blasted region of the soul. By the time he leaves, he has choked so much on your cock that bile stains are visible on his shirt and trousers, you can see the black curls of his chest hair through the damp fabric; he has drank your piss and swallowed your cum, and thanked you for the privilege.

I measure the success of a night by the way, by the amount of piss and seed I consume. Something has been released, some demon fed, the walls fall away and spaces yawn around you, unfathomable, unknowable spaces. And although it is still daylight, all you can see is darkness, the many shades of darkness, patterning your vision of yourself and this world, yourself in this world. And you see him, getting into his car, renegotiating his way back into his life, as you must renegotiate your way back into yours. One cannot write sufficiently in the name of an outside. Movements, becomings, in other word pure relations of speed and slowness, are below and above the threshold of perception. Nothing left but the zigzag of a line, like the lash of the whip of an enraged cart driver shredding faces and landscapes. I am hanging, suspended, like an angel trapped in the branches of a tree, sling-shot and low-slung; the cum of twenty men drips from me, like hot wax, creating a pool of pearl beneath me, on the black painted floor. I hang like a cage between heaven and earth, inside which, perched on a swing, my big red heart is singing. The taste of twenty men bruises my lips. I suffocate in an aroma composed of sweat and amyl and the cold damp of bare brick. I am euphoric with weightlessness, lost in some transcendence that still defies language, try as I might to trap it in the loose-knit net language offers. Each grunt still rings in my ear, each thrust still lodges in the archive of my skin. Each touch and taste documented, etched with crystal on the cold metal of my memory. Every detail hovers above the moment like a halo: the leather encasing my back, the metal links kissing my legs, the circuit of pleasure flickering around me like static, the solidity of the last cock inside me. And still, still I want more, still I feel a need within that nothing can assuage, a deep dark thirst or hunger that comes from some place I have yet to find.  Perhaps I never will. Now I know why they call it raw. I am raw from the roaring of my soul, for tonight my evil twin stormed the city gates and besieged me. I feel addled with lust. I am pure sensation, no consciousness, no ego.  Pure id; still demanding, still hankering. I reach for my clothes and, still stoned from the experience, still wobbly, proceed to dress, to find the pieces of that other self I left behind in the scramble to obey my every wish. I wrap my self around me like a life. I retrieve the fragments of another life and assume the shape they offer. For now I can inhabit oblivion, like an addict after a fix, a cloud around my head that will rain down happiness. Its organisation is very rich and complex. Love and life appear to be separate only because everything on earth is broken apart by vibrations of various amplitudes and durations. Each moment is as empty as a mirror.

Johnny