after

After getting off of work yesterday, I headed to the dermatologist to get this cyst on my neck looked at, hopefully removed somehow. It appeared about two weeks ago and did not seem to be going down in size at all, this large hump on the back of my neck that made it difficult to sink into a comfortable position while sleeping, this bump on my neck forcing me to sleep on my side. Aside from the physical discomfort of it, there was of course the fact that it simply is not cute to have a large cyst on the back of your neck. Luckily, it occurred in winter, the thing easily hidden behind collared shirts. The dermatologist stuck a needle in me and drained the thing. It hurt so much and I loved it, loved the pain, the piercing, localized nature of it, that it was so pleasant to experience such an intense sensation and to be able to control my mind's fearful reaction, to recognize it as only a specific part of my body and to distance my mind from that, or to try to, the pain being successful, the way great sex is, in at least momentarily collapsing that divide between body and mind, that your body's feelings overwhelm your mind's thoughts, merge with them. It ended, it was brief, him pinching out the last of the gunk from the cyst, it hurting like hell, and despite that pain and how some part of me, the sensible and orderly part of it, wanted it to end, another part of me was sad that it had to, that it did, wanted that intensity to continue, that surge of feeling to last.

After liquids were released from my body, I paid his receptionist, I left.

After getting off of work today, I headed to the guy on 96th Street that I see every so often. There was this couple nearby on the subway ride up there. It was a really crowded train, the kind where people have waited so long for the train that they just push their way on to it even though there is no more room, that everyone is already bunched up against each other and angry about waiting, but you are even angrier about how long you have had to wait for a train at the end of your day and you are not going to wait just as long for the next one to come and so you push yourself on to the crowded train - that type of train. And this couple that was next to me the entire way uptown really irked me in some inexplicable fashion. The guy was really sexy and I was right next to him. His girlfriend stood behind him, her holding on to him, her arm around his chest. And for the entire time I rode uptown, I felt like this girl's chubby fingers rubbing up and down her boyfriend's chest were somehow done to annoy me. Or they did annoy me just because I was being irrational, and I didn't understand why. I tried to tell myself I should be celebrating this display of sexuality, but something about it struck me as presumptuous, as an offense. I didn't know where to put my eyes. I was both turned on and filled with loathing by the sight of this dumpy girl (so I told myself, this and worst, while I mentally thought through this on the train, angry) and her ugly hands caressing this incredibly sexy man, that there was something pathetic in her display, something weird, and maybe I was jealous, jealous of this guy, of wanting to be able to be this physically affectionate with my lover on a crowded train at rush hour. I was also getting really horny, hard at their touching, hard at my anger and awkwardness I was feeling. I couldn't wait until I got off the train, until I could see this guy and piss down his throat, fuck his face until he gagged, until he spit all over my dick and stomach and caught his breath before I shoved my dick just as hard again down his throat, not caring that he just choked on it, twisting his nipples hard, and taking pleasure in this abuse. I undressed right away and quickly made these thoughts reality, enacted the sex I had just pictured walking to his house from the train. He had some piss video playing on his television and I was alive while I fucked this guy's throat, that the pleasure I took in his submissive embrace of my body, of the feel of my body, of another body, of stroking my dick lubed up by his spit until I was ready to come and then lifting his mouth up from my balls in order to shoot my come down his throat, doing so even though some part of me wanted to prolong it. The other part, the logical part, knew there were other things that needed to get done today by me and that he wouldn't call me as often as he does if I were nicer, that he likes my distance, that that is what attracts him. And the part of me dueling that part loved this intensity of feeling and wanted to prolong these moments, to always reside in such moments, for these surges of feeling to last.

After liquids were released from my body, he paid me, I left.