Today, hungover in bed, having woke up at 4:30 in the afternoon, I did some thinking, some mental calculations and realized the amount of time between Halloween and last night was almost seven months exactly. It was my first time sleeping with someone (aside from bjs from old men) in seven months. And man, in what a spectacularly raunchy fashion that dry spell was broken.
It was Ethan's birthday last night and we did a gay bar crawl that started off at the Metropolitan before crossing the East River and taking us to the Phoneix and then to Eastern Bloc and then to, of course, the Cock. I had already had a few beers before embarking on this adventure and so, by the end of the evening, I was more than a little drunk. I made out with some boy at the Cock and played with his, and then seemingly suddenly, I was in a car with Ethan and some people I didn't know heading to someone's house in Greenpoint.
On this car ride, I was very convinced that these were my last moments, the rain coming down and the city invisible from the bridge and I don't like being in cars normally, especially so when it is raining. Everything seems so barely in control, that you are just a moment away from skidding out of control into another car into a fiery mess, which despite the rain, will continue to burn slowly.
Once in Greenpoint, I said good-bye to all these people, having decided I was not getting any more wasted, but was going home, through the rain, through the puddles. One of these boys was heading toward Fun and I told him I would show him where it was and walk with him since it was on my way home. And once at Fun, I decided to go in for a drink or four. I think it was 3:30 or later when we finally got there, and yet still, in this short time frame, prodded on by this boy and by his buying me drinks, I consumed four more drinks.
And would you believe me if I told you that I hadn't drank a drop in about a week and a half, that I had decided to cut out drinking from my life? It is true, but it being my friend's birthday, I couldn't very well just not drink.
The bartender's name at this last bar was William, and when I finally woke up this afternoon, I was still able to recall his name and what he looked like and swooned for a bit over him, recalling how in a night of being in quite a few gay bars, encountering more than a few cute young boys, this was the only one I thought to be so. Something about his carriage. There is a line from Whitman that I used to have memorized, and might in better mental and physical conditions be able to recall, but now, I cannot, can only recall that its meaning is what I am trying to effect here. Something along the line of, "It's in his shoulders. To see him pass coveys as much as the greatest poem, if not more."
[Thank God for Google. I just looked up the quote. It's from "I Sing the Body Electric":
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more;
You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.]
And yes, I was half remembering these lines, perhaps a little more than half remembering William and how dreamy I thought him to be then, and still think him now - a confidence in his carriage that most gay boys lack with their wandering eyes looking for validation in other wandering eyes. That aloof quality that turns me on way more than is healthy, that disinterest.
And I occasionally looked at William, trying to hold it all in as I was talking and sitting with this man, getting drunker at Fun, which at that point, had about three other people in the bar. Somehow the conversation turned toward watersports, and drunk, my perverse fantasies were given a little more free reign than I would have otherwise normally allowed. If you let someone buy you a drink, it doesn't mean that you are going to go home with them. However, if you let someone buy you more than one, it normally does. I was already pretty resolved that I would take this guy home with me.
Outside the bar, it being closing time, he asked for directions back to that party in Greenpoint. I told him that he should come home with me, that I wanted to suck him off and jack off and have him piss on me, and that I didn't want him to spend the night. He agreed, and remarked with humor about how forward I was. Blame that on countless drinks consumed in too short a window of time.
And so, for that reason, that upfrontness about what I wanted to happen, things were more reckless, more intense, more perverse, because there were none of those pretensions to a dance, to coming upstairs for a second and making conversation about something or other before someone hesitantly starts the first kiss. Instead, once upstairs, kissing started immediately. Clothes came off just as quickly. I got beat up and it was amazing. I didn't know I had all these submissive pig fantasies, but last night, they came out. And I had this man spank me, slap me, spit on me, choke me with his cock, almost tear off my nipples, pull me by the hair. It was so painful, and yet, I loved that pain.
I loved every minute of it, of being pushed to my physical limits for pain, being beaten up and feeling gone, less like myself, and yet also, terribly, terribly present - this immediate being where there is nothing else outside of these physical sensations, that the pain and the weird pleasure gotten from it manage to drive out any other stupid, stressful thoughts in your brain, that even your subconscious is forced to heel its motions, that all there is this slap across the face, this cock that you can't have in your throat any longer or you will choke on vomit and you cry and whimper, that that becomes all you think about. And this, surely, the source of the pleasure. The pain removes other things, silences everything and leaves you in this immediate present.
After he came all over my already spit and tear covered face, he pissed on me in my bathtub. I showered afterward and came out to my living room, he, putting on his socks, and the two of us, actors offstage. No longer in character. Again, a normal conversation of equals. Those roles and that play, over.
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