He can’t relate. No not one bit. And he’s not convinced. How to? So far nothing works. I say well you’ve never been penetrated. Least I think not, he was raised atheist for Christ’s sake. But he’s got answers, a tongue. Wet. I know. Says, slithering around, a rope or meat, you’ll never penetrate, that’s the difference in a similarity. It’s debunked because we’re speaking of two different roots. I could make silly analogies, but you’ve heard them before and besides, they don’t shove it in you, I don’t mean that sarcastically but of course I do, like the more guttural, hard-nosed way of putting it. I hold nothing back. Well I retort, I’d expect nothing less. He is still smirking, not quite finished with his explication. Think it’d be easier, penetrating than being so, but the truth is, it’s just as much a power play to be penetrated as it is doing the deed. Enslaves just as well, as painfully, as fully.

I think that’s false. It is a nice try, and makes me smile, but it’s one created for a perfect reason. Self-justification. Not needed mind you, the organ is what it is, no up or down about it, the connotations are what we create. But to think in terms of ‘we’ is deplorable enough. I tell him this and he listens, which differentiates him and is a trait I take to heart; I know he wants to hear me, and it’s all I can ask of him. It’s all we can ask of anybody. Someone once wrote that a friend is nothing more than a mirror, to which you speak in order to reflect upon yourself, high and mighty or the opposite. If that is so, and I’m willing to accept it, then at least fucking is two way. Regardless of who wins or loses, if it’s right, we’ll both come in the end.

You don’t have to see eye to eye. It’s impossible. Nobody is the same height. And height is always related to shoes. So you have to learn to rationalize madness. No, even this is put into question when the impossible is up for conceptualization. Take war for example. The creation of a little monster, body giving way to body. A sick and disgusting impossibility, that my body could turn into an other. I could kill, what an impossible thought. Is that true? It is certainly possible, but I’ll tell you something, it is an impossibility to sit there now and tell me that I can take another person’s life. I simply could not perform such a heavy feat. But we know it in fact to be fact. And so the madness in rationale. Giving birth to myself but another (perhaps another impossibility?). It’s wonderfully masochistic to think we are responsible for our downfall. Though it was never really a question of responsibility, but for dramatic purposes, let the flogging begin.

But the pit inevitably fills, water turning soil to mud, expanding the foundation, building and cementing. Or it works in reverse, slowly what seems like a wonderful mountain cuts, infinitely creeping towards dissolution, gradualism. We see it grow only to cause regression. Its progress ultimately destroying it. Did they ever think about where they come from? No, instead they consider the act subhuman, belittle us to creatures, capable of two things. But that is also the negative. Without us they could not be. They are not born of themselves, but of us. And that inevitably raises a concern of power. I cannot believe he is still listening to me. Look at him, innocent of the things I rant on about, yet so utterly engraved with it, as I am, and its blatancy only makes me wet. To be subsumed, subjugated by carnal appetite, may be the most frightening fact of all. Because we are.

And I say this to him in a bath of light, blue hued from outside wave, struggling to grasp his neck, keep myself stable, because as much as I want him to see, this clench is the only real thing to me, hopefully to him, but I don’t care really; the way his breath curls itself around my ears, gently settling deep inside my lobe, and how his tongue resolutely follows, searching with confidence for unknown secrets, as if anything important I’d left unsaid could find its way out through the tunnels of my aural orifice; this is what I long for, and the lack of complexity in our descent is almost too primitive, being as close as two beings could be, I wonder if this game is really that at all, of course sublime regardless, but play is imbued by walls just the same as any other thing, I whisper something sweet but dirty, he licks back, I muffle my excretions in the pillow, not out of fear of being heard, exhibition is somewhat unavoidable in an act that by its very nature involves another, but because I know that he loves it, and right now, I love it too.

Delightfully in tune, we find the ideal in scars, in ugly forbidden pleasure, in the bitter, storax-like juice of sweets consumed, fruits that bleed. Our bodies rhythmically create dissonance, because one is penetrating, the other penetrated, but both enveloped. It is at the precise moment of danger, the position against which I struggle, that ecstasy is to be found and experienced. Because control abjectly, never purely, and without doubt, consumes. Both (more...) parties. And being eaten by this escalation of sensation removes any doubt of the horrible truth we all face, whether struggling for survival or at the top of a chain: He is mine, I am his. History indifferently blinks.