Alchemy My ejaculation inside T.'s sphincter lead directly into the most interesting course of events on that Wednesday evening. T. was the sort of person who could easily have been an editor of a literary journal, if you follow me, and yet he was not actually a homosexual, which perhaps contributed to the reasons why he was sobbing slightly at this point. My come mingled with excrement and a small amount of blood inside T. (I had slightly scratched the wall of T.'s rectum in the proceedings of the past few minutes), and I felt the edge of my anxieties dissipate as I lay on top of T. in that cramped, slightly dirty room with its whitewashed walls, and curiously, T.'s quiet weeping only helped this. I felt that the preceding experience had been fine in terms both of the indulgence of a rarely exercised perversity and of making some attempt at an effective form of non-verbal communication, but I sensed that T. was preoccupied with concerns of the bourgeois. Falling back to the verbal realm, I said, "T---, are you worried over some sort of image problem?" T. neglected to answer me or even acknowledge my question, and I felt that however I might be dissatisfied with the relationship in a normal post-coital way, feeling positive illusions degrade into negative illusions, T. was most probably dissatisfied in an entirely different sense. I decided to try to take his mind off such affairs. "T---, in the heat of the moment, I forgot to tell you that I have syphilis." To this T. merely sobbed harder and attempted to curl himself up more than he was, an effort which was doomed to failure from the way he had arranged himself under me. "Oh, do shut up, T---. I only said that to get a reaction out of you. And anyway, syphilis is curable." This in itself seemed not to help T.'s state, and so I resolved to make the most of T.'s whimpering, which was making my cock hard again, by making love to T. a second time. This resolution, it seemed, would best allow at least one of us to enjoy the way things were happening. I thus mostly refocused my intellectual attention on T.'s anus, as it still accommodated me nicely. Most if not all of you are familiar with this feeling at least from having penetrated yourselves in the shower, and this sensation was much the same, except that I was using my cock instead of any of my fingers, and it was his ass rather than my own. I swiftly began an admittedly one-sided discussion on our situation: "You know, T---, I think the reason you can't come is that this scenario is too enjoyable for you to properly believe in any fantasy. And at the same time the actuality of the scenario forces your bourgeois repressions into positive interference with your desires, and keeps you from utilizing reality to get off. Believe me," I expounded, "I understand: I've felt the same thing while masturbating in the shower." For his part, T. rather weakly dismissed this theory, whispering "no.." T. sounded dull. I was ecstatic that T. was responding coherently, if slightly discouraged that T.'s intellectual refutation was somewhat pitiful in both form and content. Yet T.'s physical response was increasing quite well in coherence, as he began to thrust back in a gratifyingly organic way. And where all those roses had been plucked, there remained only thorns, or something along that line. And yet, despite the added reciprocation on T.'s part, and the strangely amusing and pleasing fact that T. had kept his glasses on the whole time, I rather suddenly blacked out for a relatively short amount of time. And I dreamt this: I lay on my back upon a grassy hillside in the midst of summer, and the sun shone down from the sky, and my arms were crossed behind my head. An angel of light descended from the sky in front of me, and hovered around ten feet above the ground. And the angel opened his mouth to speak, and I saw the interior of the angel's mouth was a rich green moss, and moss dripped off the sides of his lips as he spoke. His teeth moved and made no sound, yet I heard his words clearly. And he kissed me and I tasted the moss of his mouth, and he was gone. I turned over on the grass, slid my jeans down a little past my hips, and easily penetrated the grass and soil beneath me, which seemed to be of just the proper texture for this sort of act, and I wondered what satiation women got from the earth. This went on for some time. I was in a tower of marble overlooking the same hillside, yet beside it and not above it, and I was seated at a small table in an very small, uncramped room with a man I knew to be the lord of the tower and my host. He had short black hair and was of indeterminate youth, with white lace collars out of his black suit. We were drinking a very fine white wine, and at my host's prompting (a move of the hand), I put in my mouth an oyster from the many on a plate on the table, which was like no oyster I had ever tasted before. But as I sucked upon it thoughtfully, it changed into a small and unpalatable disclike pastry, which I swallowed whole, and it left my mouth dry. I was a slightly post-adolescent European female with red hair and green eyes, and I was naked and my limbs were strapped down out from my sides, but not uncomfortably, and I was on a slightly elevated operating table, which was inexplicably lightly carpeted. I was giving birth. The pain was incredible. When I awoke, I was lying on my back on the bed, covered in a thin film of shit and blood, and I was alone.
last revision April 15, 2001
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