Heart
I've been more aware of my heart recently. I can feel it when I lie in bed at night, thundering away in my chest. The awareness of it brings forth visions of my own mortality; I feel how close it is to stopping, that it might beat, then beat, then beat and then suddenly cease. Completion.
Escape
I was almost taken last night. I'm not sure where, but in my head I saw visions of a deep-rutted mud track, delving down into the land; segregated from fields and rivers by thorned and twisted hedgerows, we crawled. Scraping black branches clawed up at the moon, dragging the sky down to the earth. And I was there, crawling in the narrow space between the air and the dirt, being pushed and taken at the same time. She was insistent, scrambling over me on all fours, her limbs covering me, encasing me with animal lust. The hedges drew in closer, spitting black thorns at me, and everywhere they touched my skin I felt a burning pain, felt the black spores sinking into the flesh. I lay there and let it all wash over me, like there was nothing I could do.
Prelude
I felt this urge to put my arm around her tonight. Felt this need to make contact with her, even though neither of us had had any alcohol, even though neither of us had anything to hide behind when it all went wrong. There's always a focus for these things; always some point where it all came together and it all started to fall apart. Sometimes the focal point lasts for years and years, sometimes it outlives those around whom it centres. Sometimes it only lasts for days. The focal point. I sense we're reaching it, you and I. We're reaching it.
Finally Fucked
It's the fear I can't handle, the fear of actually having to do something. If I was a woman I could simply lie there with my legs apart, accept this bumpy, grinding act; just let myself be fucked soundly and put to bed. But I can't just do that. I've got to slide my cock inside her to begin with and then drag the whole bruised length back out from between those parted lips afterwards. So I'm there in the thick of it, propped up on my knees, fucking away like something animal. Her hand is reaching up behind her, her fingers clutching at my heart and slowly squeezing the blood from it, for if she can't have semen she may as well have blood, choked-up spit and meat beneath her nails. She's coming; thank fuck I've managed that bit - my second biggest worry after getting hard - and I can feel her juices slick on my thighs and damp on the sheets. My hands are frozen in this half-caress, tumbling over her breasts with all the indignity of a dislodged rock on a steep cliff. She's panting and groaning, tossing her hair as she tosses her head, constantly sticking her tongue into my numb mouth; twice I've nearly bitten it, twice I've nearly spat in her face. My own breath is coming in ragged, hoarse pants now, animal grunts welling up inside me and my throat is dry. I never wanted this; battled it for months. It's inevitable - I should have known. It hurts when I come.
The Pain
You'd think I could accept a little pain for these pleasures. That I could give a little comfort away, just do without it, if I had to, simply to experience it all. Perhaps I could bear the loss of something inside my head, perhaps to give up my individuality for a moment and become something more. But I don't see it like that.
The Pain II
She spreads her legs for me and I see she's just carnivorous flesh. I know it's supposed to be beautiful; I'm supposed to want to kneel before it and lick it worshipfully, draw a finger down it and slowly invade that warm, liquid space. I should be inhaling its treasures and lapping at its exudations like everything that was good is contained within. It doesn't remind me of anything; I can't explain its attraction except to say that there is none. I wish there was, sometimes. But not now.
Idealism IV
Of course, it's supposed to be so easy to say no. Choosing the moment is of paramount importance, they tell me, as I picture them rolling it down the hard stretch of my cock. I never quite got it right, I'm told; if you really wanted to reject me you should have said something physically, made it all incarnate by swiping at me with the back of a hand or thrusting a fire-hardened stick into my thigh. Would an unsheathed blade have done the trick, I feel led to ask, tearing it off and unsheathing myself for illustration. She takes it from my hand, almost tender, and tries to stretch the skinny rind back down over my cock, spitting grotesquely into the end; presumably to lend a little lubrication to the proceedings. It slides down for a moment, then obstinately splits like a well-smacked lip, the purple head of my cock poking obscenely out of the taught latex, sending a little spray of frothed excitement into the air. I wanted to get dressed, but I couldn't quite say no. She fucked me anyway.
Evolution
I'm moving into a new phase now; I can feel it inside me, like some black carapace beneath my skin. When I press a finger into my stomach and move it up to where my ribs used to be there's a kind of hardness. It moves beneath the skin when I breathe. It could be a form of armour, spontaneously grown by my heart to protect it from the harshness of my own reality. One day I'll peel this skin back and see just what it is that lies beneath. Either that, or somebody will do it for me.
Continuation
It goes on. She hasn't seen me for a while, nor have I seen her. But it's there, lurking malevolently beneath the rippling surface of a snakeskin petrol lake, rainbowed and shimmering in the light. Its teeth, razor-edged and brilliant in the light, will slice the flesh from my bones like the snow that slides from a sun-warmed roof.
The Limits
I get my cock, slime lubrication around its head, down its shaft; thinly coating its whole length in a slick-greased heat. I fuck my hand. And come to grief.
Maximum Distortion
I'm pleased with the destruction I've wrought. Where my skin used to be I've left scarred and dirty walls of membrane, strung together with coarse black thread, bitten off inexpertly and trailed in much the same manner through punctured wound-lips. She can't have me now. The fact that I may be dying is second to this important sliver of information; she can't have me now. I'm safe.
