After all these years, I have become what nuns wanted, to be Beating me into submission with their rosary beads, making me ashamed back of my reactions like the one with that science teacher in junior high, a woman is provocatively dressed as a prostitute and I had to clutch my books in front of me to keep from showing my admiration, scared of it, stroking it away over and over for years, until I became castrated,unable to get a rise even with the bluest of movies or the most provocative of girls, then later denying myself to get back to what I had been in the past. Stirring Myself up inside, whipping myself into a frenzy till I boiled, making myself become with the nuns wanted, an inferno and now, without options, I am back, lacking any relief, a self torture that is sweet as it is sour, my head so filled with it I can think of nothing else, the priest with unpriestly thoughts and a body that inflates like a balloon, rising and falling, waking me in the middle of night with an emergency I still refuse to relieve, I am priest the nuns always wanted to be, whipped and chained by my imagination
We had not intended to come this far north, taking a trek along River Road that turned into 9W, following signs that said, “Bear Mountain.”
Only when we got there, we kept going, this long and winding thing, and then, we stopped at the sign saying “28 miles” because we had never intended to go there, not yet, not since I took my daughter there before COVID, seeking a bit of the East Village she could no longer find in NYC, we stopped and wet back, leaving the sign and its destination behind, for another time, for our annual overnight stay when we were better prepared to deal with the consequences, 28 miles turning into 30, then more as we made our way home.
The swelling goes down a short time after I wake, though on
some mornings I have to wait, lying in bed, like the living dead, ahead of the
ring of the alarm clock, that part of my awakening in some other time zone the
sun has not yet reached, the turning of the planet, tides in my blood, swelling,
the throbs of need I feel, inspired by dreams to which I cannot always put a
face, though my conscious mind later assembles a line up of suspects, wanted
posters on the wall at the post office, leaving me to determine which culprit
is to blame, though I already know who it is, who it always is, even with my
eyes still closed.
I can’t make this sun stand still, delay what ahead of us
must lay to not embrace while we still may, leaves us with nothing to
celebrate.
I would spend a century praising what I see, and fight off
mortality’s inevitable steed, to admire your mouth, your eyes, your breasts wishing
for an eternity for each, leaving still all the rest, hurried as the winged chariot
hurries at our heals, this fate determined to catch us wherever we go, despite
all it is we feel, this need to have now what we won’t have later, to choose
love over all, as our fate hovers, threatening to catch what is ageless, love a
figment of our fertile imagination, a myth we cling to for to lose it we lose
all, and never see love come again, and life without love is not living, so we
cling to it now and hope we can hold on, if not for an eternity, then until we
can cling no more
Beth was Liz’s best friend, although they were as different
as night and day.
Liz was as flamboyant as drag queen, with thick makeup, and
wearing dresses straight out of 1930s Hollywood, coming the club each time we
played with a new movie star personality.
Beth was just as feminine but more demure, wearing dark clothes
that hugged her amazing body like a second skin.
This may explain why I was so attracted to her. She was a
mystery woman in scene where nearly everybody’s motives were blatantly obvious.
I hit on her more than once, advances she rebuffed with a
kindly smile.
“You’re not my type,” she told me.
But what was her type. She wasn’t like the usual collection
of women trying to give blow jobs to members of the band. She seemed as
uninterested in the band members as she was in me.
What appalled me is that I saw her leaving the club with other
men, in particular Bill or Jef, neither of whom I thought were worthy of her.
Each time I saw her leave with one or the other, I got
steamed, and jealous, my brain filled with images of one or the other making
love to her, while I was cast out as unworthy instead.
I mentioned this to her one night and she gave me a sympathetic
smile and a soft pat on my shoulder.
“That’s the way life is,” she said. “Don’t take it
personally. I don’t love them, I just enjoy their company.”
When she turned to leave, she paused, and as an after thought
said, “Maybe you can come and watch sometime.”
Something odd tingled in me at the thought of it, a secret
pleasure I’d not been aware of to that point in my life, all at the idea that I
might get to watch two men fucking her, a cuckhold, getting my kicks watching
them have her when she denied me.
I declined the offer.
“I feel like a cuck just thinking about it,” I said.
She smiled warmly and said, “But you’re such a sweet cuck.
You might like it if you tried.”
The problem was: I really wanted to see her being fucked, my
head filled with those images until I could hardly think of anything else.
I began to question my manhood. Did Bill or Jeff have something
I did not have, big cocks when mine was barely average. Did she think I could
not satisfy her with my almost six inches, when she take eight inches from
other men like them.
I got chills just thinking about Bill or Jeff shoving their
cocks into her pussy or ass.
“My offer to let you watch remains open,” she said “I would
really love to have you there.”
After that, each night I saw her leave with one or the
other, the chills in me got worse, and I kept thinking I was missing out.
Then, one night, she started to leave with both of them; my
imagination went wild. So did my hormones, the whole thing unfolding in my head
like a cheap porno movie.
She smiled at me from the door, and motioned for me to come
along.
“You want me to watch both of them?” I said, shocked.
“Yes,” she said.
“But two of them?”
“I always bring both of them to my place,” she said. “It
wouldn’t be any fun if I didn’t.”
“And you want me there?”
“To watch,” she said, making me feel even more like a cuck,
and yet, I could not resist.
“Splendid,” she said and squeezed my hand, telling me to follow
behind her as she drove to her apartment.
It turned out to be a caravan, her in her car first,
followed by Bill or Jeff in their cars, and with me last, like an afterthought.
She lived on a hill, up from the rooming house where I
lived. When I finally parked, she, Jeff and Bill were already inside. I rang
the bell. She answered the door, having already changed into a red night gown.
She smiled and pulled me inside, lust oozing out of her, especially her eyes.
“We’re in here,” she said and led me to the living room,
where Jeff and Bill were seated on the couch. She pushed me into a stuffed
chair across from them, as I waited for her to take her place with them. I was
more than a little surprised when she took a seat in another stuffed armed
chair, motioning at Bill and Jeff to begin.
When they kissed each other, I nearly popped up out of my
chair, not a mild kiss, but one that was deeply passionate, tongues and all. It
didn’t stop there. They undressed each other in the midst of this intense kiss,
Jeff dragging off Bill’s pants, and Bill doing the same for Jeff, until both
men sat completely naked and with cocks standing at attention.
And what cocks!
Both of them were giants, maybe 10 inches each.
Jeff kissed his way down Bill’s torso, pausing to suck at
each breast, before reaching the erect mountain below. He lick’s Bill cock from
the balls to the tip, and then took it all into his mouth – gaging finally, before
Bill grabbed his ears and started to fuck Jeff’s face.
Beth rubbed herself between her legs watching the whole
thing transpire, her moans almost as loud as Bill’s, particularly interested
when Bill started to cum – Jeff swallowing every drop.
Beth looked at me.
“Feel free to join in,” she said, and the two on the couch
repositioned themselves, and Jeff mounted Bill from behind, doggy style.
Barely able to speak, I shook my head, “I don’t think so,” I
said, unable to look away from the love making.
Beth laughed.
“As I said, you’re not my type,” she said, though she did
give me a peck of a kiss on my cheek when I decided to leave. “Remember, you’re
always welcome.”
In the dream, she offered me a flower, and I refused. I was
confused, unable to distinguish lust for love, up to my nose in both, a flower
blooming in season, yet so much more, which I still adore, yet can barely bear,
not merely pretty, but complex, as I struggle to go on to whatever is next –
the fragrance swirling around in my head, in my bed, and I cannot stroke it away,
(and wonder if I’m secretly gay), needing to dress love up at something it is
not, disguising it with bows and ribbons until the flower is not a flower any
more, but something else, darker, more intense. We are always drawn back to it,
even when it became clear and is still clear, she had no use for me anymore, me
offering her flowers and candy she doesn’t want, yet in the dream, all is reversed,
and maybe that’s true, too, she offered, I refused, when I ought not to,
bearing all this on my shoulders, the blossom, my fingers bleeding from its
thorns, each time I try to touch where her bloom had been, finding only thorns,
too potent to grasp without bleeding myself dry
I live with the silence because I have no choice. All options
are off the table. There aren’t even breadcrumbs to follow any more, forcing me
to swallow my pride, even when I’m sometimes still lost in a fog, of my own
making.
The silence in some ways is comforting, after the shrill sounds
that once assailed me, no sharp sword hangs over my head.
I am left to guess what goes on, and if there is any logic
to any of it, life without seeing the big picture, just the pixels, like pieces
of a puzzle I can’t possible put together right.
Silence is all there is. I am deaf, dumb and blind, living in
isolation, accepting as my fate
It gets worse when I get high. Sometimes booze does it, but
far less often than when I smoke weed.
I hate having to do it for myself, but sometimes that’s all
there I,
I don’t dare do coke, or I’ll spill it uncontrollably.
Things don’t always go better with Coke, although this does,
but I dare not engage without first being assured I have an outlet for it.
I’m not that crazy. I can handle it when I smoke, stroking it
up enough, but how can I deal with the rocket when I sniff coke. It’s like a
prize bull locked away in a coral next to a pasture of needy cows. I can see
what I want, but can’t reach it anyhow, and find myself banging my head against
fence posts until I calm down.
Weed pleases me more, more a horse and buggy than a freight
train. At least, I know I can still keep hold of the reigns.
It doesn’t matter where you stick or who you stick it into,
or who sticks it in you, as long as you get to stick it in someone, rolling
with it, making someone feel good, or they, you
It doesn’t matter how many get involved, bringing it to the
front door or back or the vacancy up top, choking on it, or having it stuffed
up inside, boy or girl or some other thing, as long as it feels right.
It doesn’t matter how often you do it, as long as you do it a
lot, maybe with a lot of artners, or one after another after another until you’re
worn.
It doesn’t matter if you stick it to a stranger or someone
you know, someone dark and mysterious found in a dark corner of a bar, whose gaze
is on you from the moment you enter and clings to you when you leave, someone
who is so intense you won’t let them leave without, even if you don’t have a
name, even if there is someone already waiting for you at home. You never get
enough of it, even when you think you do, and you search if out everywhere you
go, friend or stranger, or someone in-between. You just need someone to stick
it to.
I stuff my face food know are not for me, part of a
nightmare I always wake from to get up to pee.
I keep trying to remember what the nightmare was, if she was
part of it, and scold myself for not laying back down to get there again.
In it, I stop at a stand that sells tacos (hers) and Spam
(mine,) confused about who I really am, here on the outskirts of the Promised
Land – which the Boss constantly sings about but I can never reach, love lost
is not what I seek, though as I roam through here I find myself eating a peach,
my life counted out in coffee mugs, not dainty tea spoons, another poet sings
about. I cling to the tunes on the radio and ache to get back to what I know,
we living our lives on the edge of this abyss, the bad land we can’t miss,
working hard for a living to make other men rich – some of the men she once tried
to trickle up with only to get betrayed, when all I want, and often dream of,
is lying on a beach in the sun, out of reach, liquid lunch taking me where my
dreams won’t go, and yes, also wishing, she was lying beside me.
It is difficult to describe it, the feeling you get when you
watch another man fuck the woman you love, the intense multiple feelings, rage,
humiliation, lust and even love, more complex than the best of wine.
I never got to watch her fucking another man, though I’ve
imagined it, which is maybe worse, knowing it is transpiring without even the
satisfaction of seeing it happen, or watching her flaunt the fact – tearing her
victim’s guts out as another man enjoys her.
And yet, it is not completely without its attraction, this
stirring up of emotions, this hormonal outrage, this sense of helplessness – no
one chaining you to the chair, nobody forcing you (in most cases) to watch,
nobody keeping you from walking out the door. You just sit, and watch, and wait
(not for your turn, you never get a turn) for them to finish, or for other men
to join them, adding a cherry to the stop of that ice cream sundae.
Some men love this feeling, getting addicted to it, and somehow
encourage their loved one to love someone else. Some crave the feeling like a
drug.
Winter expired long before I got the chance to steam up my
windshield with her, my back seat too cramped (being a compact car) to accommodate
all I might want to do, and hers, larger, but unavailable, this wish to grope n
the dark the way I always did as a kid, a search for all her softer spots, the
gaps in her anatomy I ache to fill, especially in the dead of winter, when
seated in my small car waiting for it to warm up so I can drive, thinking of
what it might be like, what scents we might stir up together, rubbing our
sticks together, no boy scout ritual, but a ritual of passion and flame, I still
ache to perform, to heat it all up, to steam up the windshield, to keep going
until we can draw hearts on the glass, and in each other.
When younger, I could never hold it back, when the urge came I indulged, if not with a partner then alone,
unable to satisfy it no matter how many times I tried, never able to fully appreciate its flavor as if fine wine, to let the feeling spread through me as it does now, better to feel it than to feel nothing, to have my world shaken, to keep this for a moment when it could be shared, and if unable to be with someone then to save it, let it spread through me, fogging me up, impossible to ignore, fighting the urge to suppress, refusing to stroke it out of my mind or body, this overwhelming potency I keep inside
When Craig told me he was going to get married, I spat out
my coffee, the stared across the packing table at him.
This giant of a man has spent as much time in college up
girls’ skirts as he did on the grid iron, and I couldn’t see him settling down
with any one girl, at least, not until he got into his mid-30s.
But at 23, he said it was time to settle down.
“With who?” I asked.
“A girl I’ve been dating,” he said, refusing to look
directly at me.
“Where did you meet her?” I asked, envisioning all those
club encounters from which he got his usual assortment of women.
“My mother introduced us,” Craid said. “She’s the daughter
of my mother’s best friend.
All of this came out of the blue, marriage and settling
down. Until a few months ago, he had still be talking about how to get pussy.
The proposed marriage, I soon learned, had almost nothing to
do with his future wife, but his mother and his future mother in law, who felt
it was time for Craig to settle down, no more nights out with the boys, but
more importantly, his future mother in law felt that the two mothers and daughter
should find a way to tame Craig wild streak before they took the long walk down
the aisle.
“What the fuck does that mean?” I asked him.
“They want me to prove I’m worthy of her,” Craig said.
“How?”
“They want me to show how responsible I can be,” he said.
This meant, I soon learned, that Craig had to demonstrate how
well he could perform as a house husband.
“Why the fuck would they want that?” I asked.
“My future wife is a Wall Street executive,” Craig said. “She
earns four or time times when I might make here or in my father’s insurance
firm.”
“So, they expect you to stay home and do laundry?”
“Among other things,” Craig said.
“That’s nuts!” I said. “I would suggest you get another
girlfriend.”
“I would, but I actually love her.”
“Love her enough to give up your manhood?”
Craig blushed so deeply, I realized there was something else
he was not telling me.
“What else?” I asked.
“Her mother heard about all the things I did with girls at
college, and wanted to take an extra precaution that I don’t repeat it now that
I’m engaged to her daughter.”
“What kind of precaution?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Craig. You and I are friends, work mates and if you can’t
trust me, who can you trust.”
“They put my cock in a cage,” he mumbled. “They put
something up my butt, too, some kind of remote control vibrator. If I do
something or say something wrong, the mother in law pushes a button. It gets me
excited. My cock tries to grow, and can’t, and that causes pain.”
“And you put up with this? What does you mother say? Or your
future bride.”
“They all think it’s a good idea.”
“You mean having your cock locked up so you can’t have sex
is something your future wife likes?”
“Her mother and my mother said it’s make me want my bride
all the more, and they’ve promised to give her the keys once we take the vows.”
It was impossible for me to get my head around all this.
“So, you’re going to be a full time maid?”
“Yes, at both my mother’s house and my mother in laws.”
“Do they pay you?”
“Not in a way you think,” Craig said. “I get room and board,
and don’t have to pay for my uniforms”
“What kind of uniform?” I asked. Picturing him with the
typical blue shirt and pants of a maintenance worker.
“French maid,” Cliff said.
“What?” I said, trying to picture all six foot six of him in
a French maid outfit. “How they hell did they find anything big enough to fit you.”
“We went to tailor,” Cliff said.
“In public? Wasn’t thank humiliating?”
“Not as bad as I thought, except the part about the makeup.”
“Makeup?”
“They said I wouldn’t look right in the maid’s office
without makeup, lipstick and all that.”
I was sick to my stomach.
“You really, really got to get out of this,” I said.
“It’ll be fine,” he said. “It’ll all change once we’re
married and have a place of our own.”
“That could be more than a year from now,” I said. “God knows
what other things they can do to you in that time.”
“I try not to think about it,” Craig admitted. “The hormone
treatments scare me – not just the morning shakes, but the shots the doctors
give me.”
“Hormones? It sounds like they’re trying to turn you into a
girl.”
“Funny, you should mention that. My mother in law always
says she wishes my wife had a sister.”
Craig left the job two weeks later. I never saw him in
person again, although he did send me a Christmas card sometime after his
marriage. His mother, his mother in law, his bride and him, and he did look a lot
like his bride’s sister.
I got to Asbury first, then to Ocean Grove, searching the
shore line for whales I would otherwise see later during my trip to Cape May,
this stroll through memory lane, from that time way back when I came here
looking for girls, the Stone Pony still fresh with the echoes of the Boss’
music, later coming back lost, after part other Casino fell, no Latin lovers,
just the hum of a sea I could not see in the dark of night, but felt, and still
feel, each time I come, the pleasure palace, humping those silly machines,
roller bladers passing under the crumbling arch, sand dunes rising nearby with people
sweeping it for hidden treasure, and even in the dead of winter, I search for
rumors of whales, like angels who might come to save me, as I stumble along the
boardwalk, passed the shops selling seaside junk, aching now as I ached as a
kid, searching for something I lost or never had, this place full of ghosts, full
of things that stick inside me.
I hold the rose to my chin, can almost taste it, as sweet as it is,The fragrant petals teasing my lips, it's so tender, so soft, I ache to kiss, this love, this deep desire, frail in my hands ,so I dare not hold it too closely, love has thorns, small sacrifices we make how sometimes, we need to bleed to prove our worth, the scenth
So sweet, this Rose, potent, tasting it with the tip of my tongue, licking off the drips of rain from each fold, this Rose, this love, this tender device that haunts me even when I can no longer hold it near, a memory I can't shed, do not want to, wishing instead to plunge deep into it, to feel its consume me, love like a rose, for which I believe
I still dream, wish, hope for, permission she might give me,
in some cheap seaside motels, her hands and feet tied, legs and arms splayed,
her whole naked shape exposed, waiting, anticipating the pleasure, pain that
would come next, me, hovering over her, preparing for a kiss of lips, tits, and
the in-between tongue, lashing, each inch of flesh until we are both too typed
to remain gentle, the plunge into the depths, and the pushing into the
imaginary four holes, then the desperate coming – up for air, my dream, wish,
hoping flooding into my head each night as I settled into bed, dreaming,
wishing, hoping she might slip in between the sheets, this imagined journey,
from lips to toes, Tongue lashing her like a whip, leaving no marks save what
we have inside, where all pleasure and pain reside.
It doesn’t mean anything until it does, like saying size doesn’t
matter, when it is all there is, like that time when she took a long ride
through New York State with her boyfriend when she stumbled onto the perfect
job, only the dean there has already offered it to someone else, all this from
an account by an admirer who did not see the forest for the trees, or suspected
something might have been amiss when she campaigned to get that job, and mysteriously,
the dean took back his offer to that other person and gave it to her. It meant
something then.
Or that time when her girl friend’s boyfriend began his campaign
to get her, and she eventually relented, thinking it didn’t matter, until the
SOB decided he wanted more than she offered, and then it meant something.
And so, when she told me how it didn’t matter with that guy
she picked up at a bar, I believed her, even though I wondered whether or not
it mattered when my time came to bat, and how I still wish it did since it
mattered to me.
Kids parade the streets like flocks of geese, the same
sound, only unlike summer, their coming and going more predictable, tied to
school buses rather than a change of season, their world changed dramatically
from when I was their age, a strange alignment of planets, the advent of new technology,
carrying cell phones the way Dick Tracy did his watch, familiar faces on the screens
to whom they talk, school boys dressing up punk, school girls so utterly
provocative as to make the nuns who taught me cringe, their lives dictated by a
whole new code I’m still shocked by, coming together and pulling apart in ways
that I never imagined at their age, bliss letting them paint whatever vision
they want, while I’m stuck in the past, wishing I could go back or grow up, or
to have known what they already know.
Is throbs, just not always from the same place or for the same reason.
I can cure with a few strokes.
I don't always want to relieve it, needinh to feel it, needing to need it even though that is no longer possible with her, to keep on throbbing, to feel the need when I close my eyes and remember her
I don't always want the pain to cease, feeling it making me realize I am still alive, this throbbing so entangle, so connected with visions of her, a few strokes and it vanishes, when I do not want it to vanish, embracing it just as I embrace her as a ghost, that throb reminding me of all I hope for, and will never get, and yet feel as if I have, each time it consumes me, my head filled with the fog of it , a need so desperate otherwise I would not be alive
A day after the parade the streets are still littered with
bits of green, and high hopes for spring, glittering green, steamers and hats,
empty glasses, the cheer mere echoes in the distance, as the real world regains
its grip, and we all slip back into the day to day routines we can only momentarily
forget, few others along this street taking notices, already forgotten, as are
many of those of us who partook, this spring ritual lacking the maypoles around
which to dance, and those who we would still dance with, given a chance
Even now I’m tempted to touch it, when I think of her, just
as I did on those dark nights, texting leading to touching, even when she could
not see what I did on my end of the thing, unable to see what I saw, what I
still see sometimes, what inspired me.
I ought to be over all this like an invalid that should have
recovered as time moves on, Mostly I am, except on some nights when it all
comes out again, like a ghost, and my fingers crawl across fabric and try to
touch it again, and again I think of her, in the dark, in the dead of night, no
texts to stir me up, only memories, and wishes that won’t ever come true, stirred
up, while I can’t keep it down any more
