Tuesday, October 25, 2016

King Cobra

So the other night, I watched King Cobra, the true-crime movie following the story of Brent Corrigan, who I used to be more than a little obsessed with, whose videos I used to jerk off nonstop, whose story I was insanely drawn to.

Watching it sent me spiraling, twirling back through time. The movie, a phone booth in a Circle K parking lot, taking me to places I had forgotten about, to times long past. It was all brought up again, that time in my life when I used to be really fascinated by this man who was this sex object, about what that meant, and to a time when there were internal desires, tuggings at wanting to be a sex object as well, tuggings that led me to try go-go dancing, to working in a massage parlor, to doing other lines of work, and finding fun and adventure in these explorations, a thrill unparalleled. Seeking out men, desiring their attention. There is a certain hunger and a certain power dynamic at play there that only works well when one is in their early twenties, which I most certainly am not any longer.

Yesterday, I got contacted by this guy I hadn’t heard from in years and I replayed those moments. The timing, days after viewing this film and while all those feelings and remembrances were still fresh, seemed fortuitous. To him, I was still this sex object. I got to play a role. I got to have someone physically desire me in a unique and explicit way that is so rare outside of this particular dynamic.

The hotel carpet that I was kneeling in, giving this man a blowjob, was giving me rugburn. I did not care. I did not care one bit. I loved the feeling actually, the debasement, the Times Square hotel room, the view of the city outside, this man I did not know, his desire for me. I came on that same rug that was burning my knees, payback for the rugburn. He did also. He was polite, wiped the up cum from the carpet, and told me I looked good for my age.

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