It always begins so suddenly. Except for the times when it doesn't.
A fingertip traces along the curve of a stranger's throat. A lover's hand holding yours, leading you into warm, breathing silence and the soft, and velvet darkness of a room you've never entered. Eyes that have met half a hundred times can lock in one portentous moment and you fall, drowning in the dilation of the black pools of a stranger's eyes. Rain pours down as lips crush against each other, as you drive soft flesh against an alleyway's cold brick wall. Satin sheets slide beneath you in the darkness, the old blood-shading of October's rusting moonlight smoldering on your lover's amber skin. The toilet's cold metal handle digs into your back, burning like ice on your skin as your partner drags the stall door closed behind you with the hand that's not wrapped around your throat.
It can begin with a stranger, a lover, a friend. It can come with all of the warning and inevitability of death from cancer, or it can crash down on you like a wave made up of everything you've ever wanted, and never believed could come.
It always begins suddenly. Except for when it doesn't.
But once it begins, it comes with all the burning heat of a forest fire, ancient rhythms and old rituals unfolding like hot, dark wings from out of your bones and your blood. The rhythm of your heart becomes the beating drums of a forgotten, primal tribe, calling out to the oldest core of you, calling out to your bloody, tide-drenched core. The rhythm and the heat call out to the hunger of the animal in your heart, calling it out from the cave you have kept it in, growing feral, growing hungry; The quickening of your heartbeat a pulse that draw your primal hunger to fight, to feed to fuck, to love out of the shadows cast by your image of themselves.
Some people fear the fucking, the fighting, the feeding. To them pleasure taken from another's body is a form of theft. To them, nothing pure can come from sweat and blood and teeth and come. They fear that they are small and weak, and that their flesh and fluids are somehow corrupt. And they are right; you can smell their sickness in their sweat. You can taste their fear in their silence. Their moans have the stretched, plaintive sound of need spiraled tightly around despair. Their eyes are always closed, their heads turn always towards the pillows, they never laugh, and they are always the first to light their cigarettes and sit hunched in the windowsill, holding their own knees.
But they have nothing to do with this. The Ashamed are misfits, wanderers, uninvited guests to a masquerade ball where the designated costume is nothing more than the universal absence of masks.
Few people can manage to keep their masks on tightly when their every nerve ending is oscillating between a siren song and a scream. When your lover's body is taut and wet and pulled as tightly beneath you as a the strings of a violin, stretched between the hot, beating core of their hearts and the unimaginably distant gates of heaven, the affectations we wear in the word shaped by the Ashamed are torn away far too easily, like rags in the winds of the second circle of Dante's hell.
We wear our truest faces before, during, and after the dance of meat and bone.
Down on your knees on the bathroom floor, fingernails tracing swirling Arabic script invisibly on pale, unknowing (uncaring) skin. Your knuckles sliding beneath buttons and buckles, one hand descending by inches as the train's lights flicker, strobing in time to the twisting of your hand beneath black denim; fingers moving subtly under unseen cloth, over unseen skin, as you thunder through the tunnels beneath the city as it sleeps. Wondering whose watching, not caring, as long as someone is. Your partner pushing inside you, behind you, beneath you , hands and teeth and tongue and lips everywhere, indefinable and indeterminate in their silent, flickering supplication to the temple wrapped up in your skin, your lover a machine carved out of muscle whose only goal is to manipulate your flesh for moist heat and the taste of skin caught between teeth, spine aching, cracking, curving like a sawblade as the beast with two backs splits apart, only to drive in deeper; cleaving apart only to cleave together, harder, and again.
And again.
Bodies and souls, hunger and need, fusing together in the heat of a hunger buried deeper in the self than any desire the conscious mind will ever control. Bodies forged by a primal, savage focus into burning engines of desire, grinding their way down the raw path of climax and need towards a single, silent, nova-white moment of satori, and harder, and again.
And again...
God's creations, halfway between bestial and divine pursuing pleasure and a moment's taste of oblivion and godhead. Screaming out loud because the world we are caged in offers both truth and intensity far too rarely.
We are all, at heart, animals. I've said it before, I'll say it again. To deny this, to insist that you are something more than a self-conscious upright scavenger monkey, is to reveal both the depths and cause of your fear. To glorify only the rational, thinking mind that you think of as your 'true' self is nothing more than an attempt to deny death, to deny both your inevitable mortality and your own impermanence. The meat and bone and wash of blood that course through you with every heartbeat are the ticking of a clock that the measures either the seconds of your life, or the seconds you have wasted of it.
If there's any other moment in your life that is more intense than this feeling, and doesn't involves drugs or near death experiences, you're doing it wrong.
Everyone should feel it before they die.
A fingertip traces along the curve of a stranger's throat. A lover's hand holding yours, leading you into warm, breathing silence and the soft, and velvet darkness of a room you've never entered. Eyes that have met half a hundred times can lock in one portentous moment and you fall, drowning in the dilation of the black pools of a stranger's eyes. Rain pours down as lips crush against each other, as you drive soft flesh against an alleyway's cold brick wall. Satin sheets slide beneath you in the darkness, the old blood-shading of October's rusting moonlight smoldering on your lover's amber skin. The toilet's cold metal handle digs into your back, burning like ice on your skin as your partner drags the stall door closed behind you with the hand that's not wrapped around your throat.
It can begin with a stranger, a lover, a friend. It can come with all of the warning and inevitability of death from cancer, or it can crash down on you like a wave made up of everything you've ever wanted, and never believed could come.
It always begins suddenly. Except for when it doesn't.
But once it begins, it comes with all the burning heat of a forest fire, ancient rhythms and old rituals unfolding like hot, dark wings from out of your bones and your blood. The rhythm of your heart becomes the beating drums of a forgotten, primal tribe, calling out to the oldest core of you, calling out to your bloody, tide-drenched core. The rhythm and the heat call out to the hunger of the animal in your heart, calling it out from the cave you have kept it in, growing feral, growing hungry; The quickening of your heartbeat a pulse that draw your primal hunger to fight, to feed to fuck, to love out of the shadows cast by your image of themselves.
Some people fear the fucking, the fighting, the feeding. To them pleasure taken from another's body is a form of theft. To them, nothing pure can come from sweat and blood and teeth and come. They fear that they are small and weak, and that their flesh and fluids are somehow corrupt. And they are right; you can smell their sickness in their sweat. You can taste their fear in their silence. Their moans have the stretched, plaintive sound of need spiraled tightly around despair. Their eyes are always closed, their heads turn always towards the pillows, they never laugh, and they are always the first to light their cigarettes and sit hunched in the windowsill, holding their own knees.
But they have nothing to do with this. The Ashamed are misfits, wanderers, uninvited guests to a masquerade ball where the designated costume is nothing more than the universal absence of masks.
Few people can manage to keep their masks on tightly when their every nerve ending is oscillating between a siren song and a scream. When your lover's body is taut and wet and pulled as tightly beneath you as a the strings of a violin, stretched between the hot, beating core of their hearts and the unimaginably distant gates of heaven, the affectations we wear in the word shaped by the Ashamed are torn away far too easily, like rags in the winds of the second circle of Dante's hell.
We wear our truest faces before, during, and after the dance of meat and bone.
Down on your knees on the bathroom floor, fingernails tracing swirling Arabic script invisibly on pale, unknowing (uncaring) skin. Your knuckles sliding beneath buttons and buckles, one hand descending by inches as the train's lights flicker, strobing in time to the twisting of your hand beneath black denim; fingers moving subtly under unseen cloth, over unseen skin, as you thunder through the tunnels beneath the city as it sleeps. Wondering whose watching, not caring, as long as someone is. Your partner pushing inside you, behind you, beneath you , hands and teeth and tongue and lips everywhere, indefinable and indeterminate in their silent, flickering supplication to the temple wrapped up in your skin, your lover a machine carved out of muscle whose only goal is to manipulate your flesh for moist heat and the taste of skin caught between teeth, spine aching, cracking, curving like a sawblade as the beast with two backs splits apart, only to drive in deeper; cleaving apart only to cleave together, harder, and again.
And again.
Bodies and souls, hunger and need, fusing together in the heat of a hunger buried deeper in the self than any desire the conscious mind will ever control. Bodies forged by a primal, savage focus into burning engines of desire, grinding their way down the raw path of climax and need towards a single, silent, nova-white moment of satori, and harder, and again.
And again...
God's creations, halfway between bestial and divine pursuing pleasure and a moment's taste of oblivion and godhead. Screaming out loud because the world we are caged in offers both truth and intensity far too rarely.
We are all, at heart, animals. I've said it before, I'll say it again. To deny this, to insist that you are something more than a self-conscious upright scavenger monkey, is to reveal both the depths and cause of your fear. To glorify only the rational, thinking mind that you think of as your 'true' self is nothing more than an attempt to deny death, to deny both your inevitable mortality and your own impermanence. The meat and bone and wash of blood that course through you with every heartbeat are the ticking of a clock that the measures either the seconds of your life, or the seconds you have wasted of it.
If there's any other moment in your life that is more intense than this feeling, and doesn't involves drugs or near death experiences, you're doing it wrong.
Everyone should feel it before they die.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
But you should hump the kid anyhoo, just on principle.
Funny is the only reason for living sometimes. But it's a damn good reason.
Thank you for the compliment.