Under the Veil

I always felt this one was not quite finished when I posted it, so I decided to take a look at it again and revise and finish it (for now).

"Under the Veil"

Under the veil of a new life he comes to you,
beckoning you to come into him;
and you,
limp with hope,
obey his secret kiss and
tell him yes when you mean maybe and
tell him that you love him
when you really mean you want him.

He is the son of man,
the son of the Sun.
This, at least, is what he tells you:
It is Written,
he says,
Written
and therefore true. And so

you lift your naked torso,
wet tipped tender cock erect, lifting
up up up to him, and he grins,
wet lipped,
eyes like oceans of angels,
lifting you higher, and

under a veil of desire
he takes you where he takes you,
where he wants you:
to the sea of angels,
blinding you with crystal tides,
drowning you,
drowning you,
an offering,
a peace offering,
a piece of peace,
drowning,
exquisitely.

He is the son of man,
the son of the Sun,
invincible,
he says;

unlike you,
drowning,
drowning
as the angels
sing
and the son
of sons with ancient
starry eyes
watches
with
indifference
as you
dissolve
like silt
into
the tide of
glorious
Communion.

Under the veil
of a new life
he comes to you,
wanting you,
needing you,
needing you.

This
is a warning.

You Are

You are
limp but still plump,
weeping semen,
flushed and dozing
in a rusty nest of fur.

Your wrinkled scrotum,
wet and so enticing as it
droops across your thigh,
shifts slightly
as you relax and
drift and
at last
begin to dream.

You have a name,
though probably not
the one you gave me,
but that’s okay:

to me
you are simply
a slippery
residue, albumen slick,
across my tongue,
down the back of my
tired swollen throat;
you are the sigh
of sleep,
the rising stench
of sweat
and semen, and
the stolen
cigarette
I slide behind my ear
as I look for
my shorts
and shirt
and jeans;

you are
the
soft slow rustle
of bedsheets
I hear
in the dark
behind me
as I leave your tiny room;

you are
a ghost,
an incubus
whispering
in the dark,
hands,
pale as hope,
reaching, reaching, reaching . . .

You Are Paradise (or, Adam & Steve)

You are paradise rising before me in the red light of morning.
You are the tree of knowledge shivering in the breath of a new day,
forbidden,
luscious,
divine.

You are the serpent whispering in the break of day,
the tart juice of forbidden fruit
drizzling its sin
across my skin.

And so
the whirling sword
bursts into flame above our heads,
a beacon,
a warning
we turn our backs on,
heading East,
the landscape rising
heavenward,
red as a holocaust,
as we rise with it,
rising
toward
all creation,
lush
as first fruits,
forbidden,
luscious,

divine.

Under the Veil

Under the veil of a new life he comes to you,
beckoning you to come into him;
into him, you obey his secret kiss and
tell him yes when you mean maybe and
tell him that you love him
when you mean that you want him.

He is the son of man,
the son of the Sun.
This is what he tells you,
and what he wants--

You lift your naked torso,
cock erect, wet tipped,
up up up to him, and he grins,
wet lipped,
eyes like oceans of angels,
lifting you higher and

under a veil of desire he takes you where he takes you,
where he wants you,
to the sea of angels,
drowning you,
an offering,
a peace offering,
a piece of peace,
drowning,

He is the son of man,
the son of the Sun,
invincible,

Unlike you.

Body Language, part 3

{this, like the previous 2 vignettes, is a portion of a longer piece, which may either be a novel or a novelette, I'm not sure yet.}

You have read all the articles, the long serious articles, seen the chapters from the books that want to tell you what it is, what it means and what it will mean when a naked man stands over you or lies on top of you or stands face-to-face in front of you and splashes your naked body with his warm clear piss. They will tell you how degrading it is, or how it, at least, is tinged with degradation: how, piss being piss, a waste product, shunned and disgusting, it means that there is something hostile and sadistic in the act, and how there is something self-loathing and masochistic in you for feeling such intoxicating ecstasy when that hot forbidden fluid sizzles against your skin.
You have seen the videos. The burly muscle men, naked or squeezed into black tight chaps, their cocks thick, sometimes pierced with a frighteningly hefty silver ring, their faces sneering with lust as they douse some sweaty bottom, who is sometimes bound, sometimes just kneeling like a supplicant, with a seemingly endless stream of clear piss. You always sense the tinge of disdain in the pissers (and sometimes you even hear them voice that disdain), and the pathetic eager-to-please hunger in the pissee.
You understand the delicious regressive pleasure of it, the delight of pissing yourself for him, letting the warm sour stream flow freely from your cock and puddle all over your body as he takes aim with his own stream at your mouth or your cock or your nipples.
Infantile delight: yes, you understand that. You will not get smacked for this as you would have and were as a child. Not, of course, unless you want to be smacked, which you sometimes do. On the bare bottom, though, not on the face. Never on the face. Not anymore on the face.
You sometimes lie in the bathtub, him standing over you naked, his cock partially erect and livid with the work it’s been doing, your belly and ass sticky with his and your fluids, and you look up at him as the heated stream of clear piss sprays down on you, the stream stopping and starting and then gushing full force, and you watch his eyes, look deep into them and see if you can see what the books tell you you should see; you look deep, deeper and even more deeply as his face rushes toward you, his face flushed and drenched, the light in his eyes like a universe of bursting joyful galaxies, and you taste the acid fluids he brings with him in his ravenous kiss, and you let yourself vanish with him, vanishing into a place no book can or will ever speak of, where the only sound, the only language, is the overpowering roar of the ocean of your delight.

Body Language, part 2

{this, like the previous vignette, is a small segment of a longer piece [I don't know yet if it's a novelette or a novel]. I probably won't be posting all of it here, but I'll give you a taste.}

I met him four months ago in the back stall of a men’s room. Some bar I forget the name of. It was one of those places you go to for a few weeks three or four times a week to see what the crowds offer for a while, and then when you have tasted what seems to be all that they have to offer, you move on to the next one, usually some place that’s just opened up down the block or across town that promises something younger or older or hipper or whatever it is that’s not what the other place was offering. You go there for a few weeks or, if the fixings are really good, months, and then, as usual, move on.

This was a place I’d just moved on to. A dark tiny out-of-the-way place whose big selling point was that it looked like some kind of secret gay speak-easy, some clandestine gay 1920's gin joint that only the really decadent know about and hang together in, though the truth was that it was advertised all over town in the most conspicuous places, so you really had to work yourself into a pretty self-deluded state to buy all the ambiance and attitude. I wasn’t buying it, but I decided to browse a while. The men were hot, once you got past the guys out front, who, tight-t-shirted and smoothly and drolly bored with it all, hovered in the blue and pink lights of the bar smoking their Dunhills and seemed to have been placed there like mannequins in a Saks window display for naughty yet sophisticated sex.

I met him on my second try at the place. In the men’s room, as I said, in the backmost stall, taking a piss. He was taking a piss; I was watching. I hadn’t meant to go in there, the men’s room, to have a peek at anyone’s pissing or anything else. I had to take a leak and the place was packed, mostly with other guys mounting other guys while they pissed or pretended to piss—one guy, in one of the first stalls, I was sure was sitting on the cock of a guy who was on the pot taking a shit. I stopped and watched them for a second, the hot eggy stench of the guy on the pot chasing me away to the farthest stall.

And that’s where Richard was. Standing with his black denims down around his ankles, his furry ample ass clenched tight while the loud sturdy splash of his piss in the water of the toilet echoed above the whispered grunting all around us. He didn’t say anything, but I knew he knew I was behind him outside the open stall----I saw his meaty shoulders rise a little, rolling forward, and I heard the steady piss stream pause and then start up again, and then he leaned forward, the white fabric of his t-shirt spreading and tightening against the wide wings of his back, and he reached back and touched his right ass cheek, moving it a little so I could see a wider view of the tight forest of black fur there, the little blur of anus, and then I knew I could make my move.

It was love at first probe.

Body Language

Eventually he will tell you what his hands mean, what he is saying with that soft prod of fingertip just a short inch beyond the wrinkle of your anus; he’ll tell you one way or another what that warm trickle of spittle there, the hungry lick, the restless caress, what it all means----there is a language attached to every maneuver, every touch; and you feel him speaking there with the silky thickness slipping slowly and then more urgently deeper there, and with a quickening undulating grip you respond there, the silent kiss of the rectum; it will all translate itself later, tell itself later in ways you both will either love or regret. It’s always the way. A fingertip, a thickness of flesh slick and slow and tickling tender tissues is the real language of you. Rising now, he sighs, and there is disaster in that sigh, in the flushed clench of his face, the sudden biting of his lip, and when you feel the warm breeze of his breath against your swollen lips you know suddenly that that soft warm breath is asking you to save him, to do something to help, but he pulls back from your fingers’ sweaty grip, and he clutches your melting torso, begins to nod and then shake his head, his mouth wide with the silent panic, and then you know. . . the veins of his forehead thickening, and the clench that is his face suddenly widening and opening in the momentum of his frenzy as the sound at last erupts, and you feel the warm flood of fear leave him and flee into you as you accept it and make it your own. . . and in the silence of the afterwards you lie there, his gentle sleepy breathing sighing against your cheek, and you’re listening for the thing, the longed-for signifying thing, the missing key that unlocks it all and tells you everything, everything at last.