I live in the negative places. The spaces that
exist in between, nothing. Perhaps that's why, you've never found me. Until I
left my number here.
Each night I beg: for an angel of mercy. Each night I find myself: sinning. The paper notes, the
metal coins, I place in the skeletal hands; the boatmen drive me through the river. Black. Winding. Under the
streetlamps of orange. They bring me to you. Your place. Your bed. My destination. My hell.
I am a male prostitute. Prostitute for love. Prostitute for redemption. And,
"Here I am, would you send me an angel?"
Finally you called. The most beautiful voice. With the most beautiful face.
Your eyes' a liquid blue... green... red... flaming opals that dazzle, and
dazzle, and I couldn't take my eyes off. Your lips so soft. So soft
around my snake. Sucking. Until I was all hard and ready to go. I could be
lost, forever in you. Just coming and cumming and coming.
And then you stopped. You took off your robes.
And revealed yourself. With no navel. No sex organ between your thighs. Nothing.
Blank. Sealed. Clean. So smooth. Yet, so natural.
What are you?
I cannot forget the flaming opals that blaze. And the silver
feathered wings. The gentle breeze that moved when you flew through the window. And the stars that cried when you plunged deep into
the sea. Yes, it looked like heaven. A reflection. But it's the only one we've got.
*
I have no wings. I can't fly.
But you can ride my snake. And I can share your
sins. All your sins. Because I am for rent. Body and soul. Body and soul.
Showing posts with label body and soul for rent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label body and soul for rent. Show all posts
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
BASFR: Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence
At the end of twilight. In the half-darkness of
his hall. The snow fell in December.
On this tropical island.
Outside his house. Inside his house.
He played the piano wearing his full white military uniform as the snow fell sparkling gold under the spotlights. The spotlights burned from the ceiling. The snow melted on his fingers. His fingers danced. Tenderly. Across the black and white spaces of music. Emotion. Memory.
“How do you charge?” he asked.
“As long as your song is going,” I replied.
And his fingers danced across the black and white spaces of story. Secret. Life.
I listened to him:
*
“I have charged them all. Sent them all to detention barrack. The queers, the gays, the sinners. They deserved it. That's where they belong.”
I made no sound. Just sat quietly, listening. The beauty of the melody: falling: like petals of melting snow in the hall. His silky voice slipping: through: between light and shadow.
“Their love wears forbidden colour.”
He frowned. Sighed. Confessed:
“And my love, is forbidden colour.”
“I don’t understand. I don't... If it is wrong, why would God make it feel so good?”
The melted snow pooled into liquid on the floor. A liquid mirror. And the spotlights quivered, danced, in the mirror floor.
His quivering reflection was that of a boy. A boy in full white school uniform, playing the piano. But a frightened little boy.
“They dragged me into the toilet cubicle. Tore my clothes off. Grabbed my cock in their hands. And they took turns. Sucking it.”
“I hated them for it. I hated them. I hated them for making something so disgusting feel so good. They made me hard. And they made me cum and cum. Even when I didn’t want to. And damn it! I love that feeling…”
*
The man playing the piano was in his full white military uniform. An army colonel. The peeks of white were showing in his hair. And the flashes of white were falling in the hall. The ceiling was gone. The spotlights were gone. Just the stars blazing bright and clear in the wintry sky of December above our island.
“They didn’t want me. I didn’t want to seduce. So I forced them.”
“It was easy. I was their officer.
“And they all grew hard too. And they cummed just as easily. As easily as they were uncomfortable.
“And soon they found me others. Others to bite into. For we were the vampires. Passing on our love like a mystic river. A river flowing in forbidden colour. Flowing from the top, down to the bottom. But we were always searching for the sea. Always.”
“I had to charge them all. My superiors knew my explicit hatred for gays. No place for them in the army, I had declared. The generals with the stars on their shoulders patted my shoulder – go on, they said, go on.”
“I had to silence them. Silence them all. Not just the ones who tried to turn me in; not just the ones who turned against me. I smeared them. Painted them as liars. As vampires who preyed on others. I made them out as the worst possible abominations there could be.”
*
The walls of his hall were gone. The floor was gone. The melted snow had formed a trickling stream running over our feet. Stars were everywhere in the stream. But it was cold. The coldness of the music. The coldness of the night.
“How can something that feels so good be wrong?”
“How can a river flow in forbidden colour?”
“Where is my own piece of ocean?”
“When will I reach it?”
The colonel turned his face towards me, eyes pleading. “Will you suck my cock?”
I laughed.
“All you can afford is your music. For I'll be gone when this song ends.”
Desperate and afraid, his hands left the piano suddenly in a wild attempt to grasp me.
But I was gone.
From his house. From his hall. From him.
*
A few days later, it came out in the news that a high-ranking officer, well-known for his anti-gay stance, was charged for running a homosexual club in the army camp.
Another few days later, on Christmas eve, he was found dead with a pistol in his mouth.
There was blood all over the piano. And it burned bright in forbidden colour.
On this tropical island.
Outside his house. Inside his house.
He played the piano wearing his full white military uniform as the snow fell sparkling gold under the spotlights. The spotlights burned from the ceiling. The snow melted on his fingers. His fingers danced. Tenderly. Across the black and white spaces of music. Emotion. Memory.
“How do you charge?” he asked.
“As long as your song is going,” I replied.
And his fingers danced across the black and white spaces of story. Secret. Life.
I listened to him:
*
“I have charged them all. Sent them all to detention barrack. The queers, the gays, the sinners. They deserved it. That's where they belong.”
I made no sound. Just sat quietly, listening. The beauty of the melody: falling: like petals of melting snow in the hall. His silky voice slipping: through: between light and shadow.
“Their love wears forbidden colour.”
He frowned. Sighed. Confessed:
“And my love, is forbidden colour.”
“I don’t understand. I don't... If it is wrong, why would God make it feel so good?”
The melted snow pooled into liquid on the floor. A liquid mirror. And the spotlights quivered, danced, in the mirror floor.
His quivering reflection was that of a boy. A boy in full white school uniform, playing the piano. But a frightened little boy.
“They dragged me into the toilet cubicle. Tore my clothes off. Grabbed my cock in their hands. And they took turns. Sucking it.”
“I hated them for it. I hated them. I hated them for making something so disgusting feel so good. They made me hard. And they made me cum and cum. Even when I didn’t want to. And damn it! I love that feeling…”
*
The man playing the piano was in his full white military uniform. An army colonel. The peeks of white were showing in his hair. And the flashes of white were falling in the hall. The ceiling was gone. The spotlights were gone. Just the stars blazing bright and clear in the wintry sky of December above our island.
“They didn’t want me. I didn’t want to seduce. So I forced them.”
“It was easy. I was their officer.
“And they all grew hard too. And they cummed just as easily. As easily as they were uncomfortable.
“And soon they found me others. Others to bite into. For we were the vampires. Passing on our love like a mystic river. A river flowing in forbidden colour. Flowing from the top, down to the bottom. But we were always searching for the sea. Always.”
“I had to charge them all. My superiors knew my explicit hatred for gays. No place for them in the army, I had declared. The generals with the stars on their shoulders patted my shoulder – go on, they said, go on.”
“I had to silence them. Silence them all. Not just the ones who tried to turn me in; not just the ones who turned against me. I smeared them. Painted them as liars. As vampires who preyed on others. I made them out as the worst possible abominations there could be.”
*
The walls of his hall were gone. The floor was gone. The melted snow had formed a trickling stream running over our feet. Stars were everywhere in the stream. But it was cold. The coldness of the music. The coldness of the night.
“How can something that feels so good be wrong?”
“How can a river flow in forbidden colour?”
“Where is my own piece of ocean?”
“When will I reach it?”
The colonel turned his face towards me, eyes pleading. “Will you suck my cock?”
I laughed.
“All you can afford is your music. For I'll be gone when this song ends.”
Desperate and afraid, his hands left the piano suddenly in a wild attempt to grasp me.
But I was gone.
From his house. From his hall. From him.
*
A few days later, it came out in the news that a high-ranking officer, well-known for his anti-gay stance, was charged for running a homosexual club in the army camp.
Another few days later, on Christmas eve, he was found dead with a pistol in his mouth.
There was blood all over the piano. And it burned bright in forbidden colour.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
BASFR: Capturing the soul
Her hostel room at 4.35 am. A dark morning hung outside, exorcised momentarily by the brilliant flashes of lightning. Distance rumbled, while cold wind came blowing in from the west coast. Continuously.
But we had a glass of wine each in our hands. And the table lamp lit her room glowing in a pool of peach and gold.
“Why the constant sex and death in your writing?” she asked.
She was sitting on the bed - sleeveless jogging vest and shorts, and a blanket wrapped over her thighs.
“Live. Love. Dream. And die. That's the process of existence in a word-universe,” I replied.
An hour before, she didn't exist. Except for a young voice over the phone. And the promise she made as part of the bargain. An hour after, she was living. In flesh. Real. With her scent in my nose. And she was near. So near that I could almost reach out and touch her skin. But I didn't move.
She didn't too.
“I - I am quite surprised you came," she said. "I mean, we are total strangers, right? Although over the phone, you know... And of course it is stated over your blog that you are for rent, so... well..."
She blushed as she stammered and stuttered.
I didn't know how to react to that compliment, but I thought she was definitely cute in saying that. Her embarrassed candidness. I tried to give a smile, and my smile probably wasn't assuring. For she blushed even harder and looked away from me.
A sudden gust rushed in through the window. Metal blades of the blind vibrated. The gust then rushed out through the doorway, lifting the translucent cloth veil into the air and revealing the corridor outside.
“You are a left-hander,” I said.
“How do you know?” She was surprised.
I shrugged and didn't give a reply.
She frowned. The face wrinkled. For several seconds. And she laughed. Loud and young. And her laughter filled the room.
“You talk like this often?”
"Depends." I shrugged again.
Thus her eyes twinkled.
*
We finished half a bottle of wine while she chatted, about everything. About anything. Like the way you can tell an intimate stranger your fears, your desires, yourself. The bursting of unbearable secrets. The urging to bare all to someone else. To connect. To share. So that you’re not alone anymore. So that you’re free. So that another person knows - who you truly are.
I listened quietly.
Finally, a little out of breath, she asked abruptly, “So how do you charge?”
Obviously it must have been a matter weighing in her head for some time.
“For this?”
She nodded vigorously. Her face was flushing, her eyes were looking at me intently. Yet in that instant, she was much further away. Like that edgy voice over the phone when she called me.
She pulled the blanket up from her thighs and wrapped it tight over her shoulders. She was shivering. The cloth veil by the doorway flapped its floral print to the movement of the wind.
We could pretend. We could play and act. But it was, and would always be, two lonely people.
“No. No money. Not today.”
There was a moment of silence.
“What do you want then?” she asked timidly.
“Maybe, just a few photos of you."
She seemed a little excited. “You mean – nude?”
“Anything. Just a few shots of you. Now. Doing whatever you like.”
She bit her fingernails. Then, after a while, she said, “Ok.”
She stood up, left the bed and went to close the door. The door was locked. The cloth veil and the corridor disappeared. The world was shut from this room. The wind ceased.
She turned around. Faced me. Bit her lips. And tugged her jogging vest off her body. Tugged her black sports bra off. (I could see her small beautiful breasts and hard nipples). Pulled her shorts down. Hesitated. Then pulled her panties down too. (Neatly cropped pubic hair). It was all done in less than a minute. I was admiring, as she revealed herself full to me.
“What are you waiting for? I’m posing already!”
I shook my head. "This is showing off your body. Not posing."
She pouted and looked around, then made the decision: her study desk.
Pushed away all the books that were on it.
Opened her cupboard.
Took out a black patent leather bag.
Slung it over her shoulder and climbed up the table and gave a doggy pose, with her slippery wet tongue wagging.
My camera clicked rapidly. She giggled, and
barked at me.
The different postures. The escalating excitement. Eventually she sat on the tabletop, leaned back against the window blind and spread her legs wide open. To flaunt her pussy. And she asked, “Is it okay if I ...?”
Under the hood. In the moist dew. A pink rosebud. Fingers strum. Strumming her hunger. Her aching. For air. For life. And she gasped. The gushes and juices, the back arches. Peeking forth, the rose blossoms. Petals unfolding. In full ripening. And there is nectar. Sweet nectar within.
She could not stop moaning. Her face, contorted in agony. Anguish. And tears rolled down. Tears rolled down. Moaning. Groaning. Soon. Very soon, she was crying. Great silent sobs of a body-shuddering kind. She hugged her knees in a tight fetal position and rocked herself back and forth. Tears rolled down. Tears rolled down.
It was raining outside.
I carried her to the bed where she curled up like a baby. I covered her with the blanket, sat down in that void of silence, and waited, until eventually she went deep, deep into a quiet quiet sleep.
*
Left her hostel room.
Drenched in the rain.
Took a cab back home.
Along the way, I reviewed the photos taken of her. The images were raw, and tender, and excruciating. And I deleted them one by one, such that, when I got out of the taxi:
I never saw her again in my life.
But we had a glass of wine each in our hands. And the table lamp lit her room glowing in a pool of peach and gold.
“Why the constant sex and death in your writing?” she asked.
She was sitting on the bed - sleeveless jogging vest and shorts, and a blanket wrapped over her thighs.
“Live. Love. Dream. And die. That's the process of existence in a word-universe,” I replied.
An hour before, she didn't exist. Except for a young voice over the phone. And the promise she made as part of the bargain. An hour after, she was living. In flesh. Real. With her scent in my nose. And she was near. So near that I could almost reach out and touch her skin. But I didn't move.
She didn't too.
“I - I am quite surprised you came," she said. "I mean, we are total strangers, right? Although over the phone, you know... And of course it is stated over your blog that you are for rent, so... well..."
She blushed as she stammered and stuttered.
"And you are - kind of, well... cute too."
I didn't know how to react to that compliment, but I thought she was definitely cute in saying that. Her embarrassed candidness. I tried to give a smile, and my smile probably wasn't assuring. For she blushed even harder and looked away from me.
A sudden gust rushed in through the window. Metal blades of the blind vibrated. The gust then rushed out through the doorway, lifting the translucent cloth veil into the air and revealing the corridor outside.
“You are a left-hander,” I said.
“How do you know?” She was surprised.
I shrugged and didn't give a reply.
She frowned. The face wrinkled. For several seconds. And she laughed. Loud and young. And her laughter filled the room.
“You talk like this often?”
"Depends." I shrugged again.
Thus her eyes twinkled.
*
We finished half a bottle of wine while she chatted, about everything. About anything. Like the way you can tell an intimate stranger your fears, your desires, yourself. The bursting of unbearable secrets. The urging to bare all to someone else. To connect. To share. So that you’re not alone anymore. So that you’re free. So that another person knows - who you truly are.
I listened quietly.
Finally, a little out of breath, she asked abruptly, “So how do you charge?”
Obviously it must have been a matter weighing in her head for some time.
“For this?”
She nodded vigorously. Her face was flushing, her eyes were looking at me intently. Yet in that instant, she was much further away. Like that edgy voice over the phone when she called me.
She pulled the blanket up from her thighs and wrapped it tight over her shoulders. She was shivering. The cloth veil by the doorway flapped its floral print to the movement of the wind.
We could pretend. We could play and act. But it was, and would always be, two lonely people.
“No. No money. Not today.”
There was a moment of silence.
“What do you want then?” she asked timidly.
“Maybe, just a few photos of you."
She seemed a little excited. “You mean – nude?”
“Anything. Just a few shots of you. Now. Doing whatever you like.”
She bit her fingernails. Then, after a while, she said, “Ok.”
She stood up, left the bed and went to close the door. The door was locked. The cloth veil and the corridor disappeared. The world was shut from this room. The wind ceased.
She turned around. Faced me. Bit her lips. And tugged her jogging vest off her body. Tugged her black sports bra off. (I could see her small beautiful breasts and hard nipples). Pulled her shorts down. Hesitated. Then pulled her panties down too. (Neatly cropped pubic hair). It was all done in less than a minute. I was admiring, as she revealed herself full to me.
“What are you waiting for? I’m posing already!”
I shook my head. "This is showing off your body. Not posing."
She pouted and looked around, then made the decision: her study desk.
Pushed away all the books that were on it.
Opened her cupboard.
Took out a black patent leather bag.
Slung it over her shoulder and climbed up the table and gave a doggy pose, with her slippery wet tongue wagging.
The different postures. The escalating excitement. Eventually she sat on the tabletop, leaned back against the window blind and spread her legs wide open. To flaunt her pussy. And she asked, “Is it okay if I ...?”
Under the hood. In the moist dew. A pink rosebud. Fingers strum. Strumming her hunger. Her aching. For air. For life. And she gasped. The gushes and juices, the back arches. Peeking forth, the rose blossoms. Petals unfolding. In full ripening. And there is nectar. Sweet nectar within.
She could not stop moaning. Her face, contorted in agony. Anguish. And tears rolled down. Tears rolled down. Moaning. Groaning. Soon. Very soon, she was crying. Great silent sobs of a body-shuddering kind. She hugged her knees in a tight fetal position and rocked herself back and forth. Tears rolled down. Tears rolled down.
It was raining outside.
I carried her to the bed where she curled up like a baby. I covered her with the blanket, sat down in that void of silence, and waited, until eventually she went deep, deep into a quiet quiet sleep.
*
Left her hostel room.
Drenched in the rain.
Took a cab back home.
Along the way, I reviewed the photos taken of her. The images were raw, and tender, and excruciating. And I deleted them one by one, such that, when I got out of the taxi:
I never saw her again in my life.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Body and soul for rent (BASFR)
My body and soul - for rent. For you. For your
private use. What will you pay me?
*
We would never have met, if not for my advertisement here. And the number you left in my email box, no, we should never have met. Still I searched for you uneasily in the cafe. The place of our rendezvous.
Who are you? What are you? Why are you? Where are you?
You tapped my shoulder and you said: How are you?
It felt like a game, and yes, you did spot me first. There, I saw you smile.
Our chat was light. Like smoke over water. Moving about on the surface. Of a lake I could see nothing about. But I was willing to plunge blind into you. Into you. Even for free. Because you are so beautiful. So vulnerably beautiful.
Night fell with a quietness outside your house. A big bungalow. Plasma TV. Black leather sofa. Parquet flooring. Spotlights. Designer furniture. And your wedding photo on the wall. Gray and white.
You took out the money. You took off your ring. You took off your clothes. A naked body. Bruised. Battered. Lashed. You took out your husband's belt and placed it in my hand. Whip me, you said.
It was in tears and blood we had sex. I kissed you in all the places that hurt. The parts that I had whipped. The parts that had already been whipped. The wounds bleeding, the wounds bled and dried, the new wounds over the old, the scars reopened - I had my tongue over them all.
And I tasted your tears. Coming forth from the depth of a lake I still could not see. But I was willing to plunge blind into you. Even without the money you had placed on the bedside table. For you were so beautiful. So vulnerably beautiful. And each plunge I made, you said: it hurts less. it hurts less. But you cried more. There was the smoke floating over the water of your lake. I swam in it.
One night. Two nights. Three. Four five six. I thought you were merely drunk on the seventh. The bottles of whisky lying broken everywhere. There was blood on your bare body. And blood all over the bed. Under the bed. Around the bed. Your lopsided walk. The medicine box. Empty of all pills. Your drunken way of saying: it's over now. The way you spread your legs open. The way you curled your fingers. Come on, come on, come on...
I made love to you till your last breath expired. Till you lay dead. Unmoving. With a frozen smile on your face. The police told me that your husband was found under the bed. I was not sure if he heard your cries of desperate pleasure.
You left me your money. Your everything. You left me the stain that no soap, no detergent, no fucks can ever wash out. It just becomes a little fainter each time I'm rented out. Rented out. Rented out. Out. Out. Out. Sharing the pain.
My body and soul is for rent. For you. For your private use. What will you pay me?
*
We would never have met, if not for my advertisement here. And the number you left in my email box, no, we should never have met. Still I searched for you uneasily in the cafe. The place of our rendezvous.
Who are you? What are you? Why are you? Where are you?
You tapped my shoulder and you said: How are you?
It felt like a game, and yes, you did spot me first. There, I saw you smile.
Our chat was light. Like smoke over water. Moving about on the surface. Of a lake I could see nothing about. But I was willing to plunge blind into you. Into you. Even for free. Because you are so beautiful. So vulnerably beautiful.
Night fell with a quietness outside your house. A big bungalow. Plasma TV. Black leather sofa. Parquet flooring. Spotlights. Designer furniture. And your wedding photo on the wall. Gray and white.
You took out the money. You took off your ring. You took off your clothes. A naked body. Bruised. Battered. Lashed. You took out your husband's belt and placed it in my hand. Whip me, you said.
It was in tears and blood we had sex. I kissed you in all the places that hurt. The parts that I had whipped. The parts that had already been whipped. The wounds bleeding, the wounds bled and dried, the new wounds over the old, the scars reopened - I had my tongue over them all.
And I tasted your tears. Coming forth from the depth of a lake I still could not see. But I was willing to plunge blind into you. Even without the money you had placed on the bedside table. For you were so beautiful. So vulnerably beautiful. And each plunge I made, you said: it hurts less. it hurts less. But you cried more. There was the smoke floating over the water of your lake. I swam in it.
One night. Two nights. Three. Four five six. I thought you were merely drunk on the seventh. The bottles of whisky lying broken everywhere. There was blood on your bare body. And blood all over the bed. Under the bed. Around the bed. Your lopsided walk. The medicine box. Empty of all pills. Your drunken way of saying: it's over now. The way you spread your legs open. The way you curled your fingers. Come on, come on, come on...
I made love to you till your last breath expired. Till you lay dead. Unmoving. With a frozen smile on your face. The police told me that your husband was found under the bed. I was not sure if he heard your cries of desperate pleasure.
You left me your money. Your everything. You left me the stain that no soap, no detergent, no fucks can ever wash out. It just becomes a little fainter each time I'm rented out. Rented out. Rented out. Out. Out. Out. Sharing the pain.
My body and soul is for rent. For you. For your private use. What will you pay me?
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