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Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Arabian Nights

Hey, I think a blog or two back, I talked about wanting to crawl on my knees to find this one guy I wanted to fuck, right? Well, I had my chance last night.

As usual, my regular squeeze was MIA, so I went looking online and the next thing I know, I’m chatting up this Egyptian guy…the one I told you about earlier.  Now I don’t know if I told you this, but I have a real THING for Middle Eastern men.  I love their politeness, their grooming, their accents, their asses, their textiles, their tea, you name it.  And when this rose-lipped, bubble-assed beauty said that I could come over and fuck him, I practically tripped over myself scrambling out the door.

I started to worry when 5 minutes, then 10 minutes and again at 12 minutes into the journey, he called to find out where I was.  Where I was??? Jesus Christ, if I had been moving any faster, I would have had to get NASA to plot an orbital velocity. 

So I get there, and this guy is so fucked up on Meth, he can barely function.  I ‘m hardly in the door before he starts:  “Take it out, take it out, take it out. Let me see it. Let me see it. Take it out.  Take it out.  Take it out.  Awww that’s great.   That’s beautiful.  Touch my tits, touch my tits, touch my tits.  Let me hold it, let me hold it, let me hold it.”    This man shouldn’t have been a drug addict; he should have been a driving instructor. 

And it only got worse when we were in the bedroom. “ Push it in, push it in, push it in.  That’s enough!  That’s enough!  Stop.  No.  More!  Leave it there! Touch my tits.  Touch my tits.  That’s it baby. Now push it in, ½ a centimeter more, just ½ a centimeter. 

Jesus Christ!  Now I needed to know metric conversion.  He had me pushing and touching, twisting and fiddling.  It’s a small wonder that with all that dialing, I didn’t tune in a television program.

“Come on baby, get it hard for me, get it hard for me, get it hard for me.”  How the fuck can I get it hard?  I’m too busy taking all this direction!

Finally I told him I had it and packed up and left.  But before I went, he reminded me that we had hooked up years ago when he lived in another apartment further south in Chelsea.  It all came back.  I had gone over to his apartment on a late Sunday afternoon.  He was high then too, but he was much healthier and in far better shape then.  I remember thrilling that I had bagged such a beauty.  His ass was twice the size then that it was now in his current wasted frame.  I remember sunlight coming into the room.  I remember fucking him and a feeling that he was remote…distancing himself from the man that was attached to the cock that was up his ass.   I remember cumming in him at his insistence and then an awkward, quiet goodbye.   

I hadn’t seen him in all these years.   What had happened?  That beautiful body?  There were pictures on his wall of his family…taken some time ago, they showed a healthier frame on him.  Now they were in shadows in his darkened, messy apartment.  The health of his past, the zest of his life…now a grainy backdrop to this mad, jacked-up....  I wished I had known him better before…before he had come to this.  For a few seconds I enjoyed a fantasy where we were out together, talking and enjoying each other’s company.  I took another look at the dark wall with all the pictures.  Which of those older folks were his parents?  Who were the children he held his arms?   Those images, that man, that youth and now this quaking, bug-eyed collapse he had become.

You know, I pull back and think to myself…what has a farmer to do with all these urban tales?  Where is the talk of baling hay and how to balm an utter? 

Well I’ll tell you this.  At my farm, there is a steep hill, the face of which is covered with tall, dark, solemn hemlock.  There they stand each morning and night to look down upon me in stoic silence.  Firm, immutable, cold.  Beneath their height and shadow I am nothing other than the choices I make, stupid or clever or funny or kind.  No response from them, encouragement or clues.  I am left before them, my tiny actions, however good or bad, my pathetic attempts at reckoning what should and should not be, with the only knowledge that mistakes are swiftly and irrevocably punished.  

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