starbucks: asagaya station, 2.25pm. very tortured by inconveniences, like homelessness. etc. money, blocked card, no internet, no language.
mums in distress, the idea, of women, in distress...!! what does it do to you, as an older gay man? one who actually likes women.
i like to write about the man who tends his home fastidiously, he's a success, in that everything is just so, built from considered individuality in purchases from wilkinsons, tescos, trips to thailand, and his skin has become puffy, red but tight,so tight, from the amount of herbs that he subjects it to on a daily, routine basis.
deep erotics of writing, anecdotes.
me - t***** - first night spent 'together' one on one. the green bruises on my arm from fighting that night are prominant now, 3 days later.
music, sharing, talking, enjoying each other, consuming, the deep flooding of blood to my crotch when the quote from sans soleil about past hurt from deep bonds, not disappearing but remaining as 'a disembodied wound' * was shown, the clip from the film, after having been relayed to me via email already. like an excited child who's had an idea, i, coldly, blandly refuse to engage with it. except by turning it into an erotic affect on me, which I tell him. i can disarm his ideas by complimenting him or referring to our sexuality or my own. our ideas, senses of selves in constant battle until they are in harmony, and harmony means somehow, someone is winning over the agency of the other. it does. our harmony is sexual. but is it vanilla? we had sex that night, but not penetrative. i wanted to, but i wanted penetrative sex to be somehow special, not sure why. i didn't know how, this creative mind doesn't yet engage, and I didn't want to overthink it, so i haven't overthought it.
we had sex the next night, after not and not and not, our bodies so madly hungry for one another, the physical intimacy thing coursing through our mouths, we kissed and kissed and kissed as if we couldnt ever stop. i held his penis at the entrance to my vagina for perhaps a minute, grinding on it, and touching myself, until I 'let' him in, and came immediately. like a man. i apologised for being selfish, and he said, half affectionately, half sharply, 'you're always selfish'. I couldn't disagree. his orgasm now seemed superfluous and we fucked hard until he came inside me, then fell asleep almost immediately. less loving than we ever were before, less devouring, savouring and luxuriating than we were.
*"Who said that time heals all wounds? It would be better to say that time heals everything - except wounds. With time, the hurt of separation loses its real limits. With time, the desired body will soon disappear, and if the desiring body has already ceased to exist for the other, then what remains is a wound, disembodied"
mums in distress, the idea, of women, in distress...!! what does it do to you, as an older gay man? one who actually likes women.
i like to write about the man who tends his home fastidiously, he's a success, in that everything is just so, built from considered individuality in purchases from wilkinsons, tescos, trips to thailand, and his skin has become puffy, red but tight,so tight, from the amount of herbs that he subjects it to on a daily, routine basis.
deep erotics of writing, anecdotes.
me - t***** - first night spent 'together' one on one. the green bruises on my arm from fighting that night are prominant now, 3 days later.
music, sharing, talking, enjoying each other, consuming, the deep flooding of blood to my crotch when the quote from sans soleil about past hurt from deep bonds, not disappearing but remaining as 'a disembodied wound' * was shown, the clip from the film, after having been relayed to me via email already. like an excited child who's had an idea, i, coldly, blandly refuse to engage with it. except by turning it into an erotic affect on me, which I tell him. i can disarm his ideas by complimenting him or referring to our sexuality or my own. our ideas, senses of selves in constant battle until they are in harmony, and harmony means somehow, someone is winning over the agency of the other. it does. our harmony is sexual. but is it vanilla? we had sex that night, but not penetrative. i wanted to, but i wanted penetrative sex to be somehow special, not sure why. i didn't know how, this creative mind doesn't yet engage, and I didn't want to overthink it, so i haven't overthought it.
we had sex the next night, after not and not and not, our bodies so madly hungry for one another, the physical intimacy thing coursing through our mouths, we kissed and kissed and kissed as if we couldnt ever stop. i held his penis at the entrance to my vagina for perhaps a minute, grinding on it, and touching myself, until I 'let' him in, and came immediately. like a man. i apologised for being selfish, and he said, half affectionately, half sharply, 'you're always selfish'. I couldn't disagree. his orgasm now seemed superfluous and we fucked hard until he came inside me, then fell asleep almost immediately. less loving than we ever were before, less devouring, savouring and luxuriating than we were.
*"Who said that time heals all wounds? It would be better to say that time heals everything - except wounds. With time, the hurt of separation loses its real limits. With time, the desired body will soon disappear, and if the desiring body has already ceased to exist for the other, then what remains is a wound, disembodied"
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