it's either this, or Napster. I sat down in front of my obsession (the computer) 8 hours ago—it's almost 9:00 PM now—and, except for brief excursions to eat, shower and do dishes, I haven't moved. Had a message from Stephanie earlier, but wasn't in the mood for a long conversation, so I put off calling. ..until a few minutes ago; I made a deal (in my head)—if the conversation is brief, I will, finally, start writing. It was, and thus I am here.
Big deal. I am going through one of my longest non-journal phases ever, writing very little for the past month and a half. It gets to be a comfort, like a needle in the skin, an assurance that I don't need anything, that I can make it all or get it all or find it all, or do quite nicely without it, thank you. You know, it's only just a voice.
Some of the best blowjobs I have ever given were those that required me to stop breathing. Size implications aside, the real trick is the subjugation of a crucial need to a flippant one, to disregard my throat's essential function as an airway for me, in favor of its unnecessary function as a wet, hot, tight receptacle for you. It happens in a thought, it is a wanting choice, an instant of surrender. And it makes me powerful.
it happened years ago when I was younger and, you know, not so desperate as now. But still, it happened in the bushes. He was a big guy, over 6 feet, younger than me by probably 5 years, and half sitting on top of a pic-nic table in the park. I guess it was around dusk—I don't really remember. He had that familiar, intent-serious look; he was not sitting there waiting for supper.
Compatability, of sorts, is the key. It would not have worked for me had he wanted to be on his knees, nor if he'd wanted neither of us on our knees. Wholly random as match-ups go; he might have gone with any of the others cruising, all indistinguishable from me, at least initially, and I might have shied away from him, feeling less than deserving—he was really quite a stud. But very discreetly, he checked me out, and then got up and started toward an isolated path. He looked back only partway, but enough to find me in his peripheral vision, and subtle as a breath, he beckoned me to follow. It felt like a winning scratch ticket, though modest be the prize; a trick in the park who will take what I want him to take, and give what I want him to give. Though I wasn't sure of all that ..til he and I got very close.
risk is the magic that creates, out of a voice, singing. You take nasal words and stand them on firm footing somewhere deep, down around your pelvis. You fill them with your heart and make them loud; you risk being heard. Foolishness is the courage of youth and, depending on which way we recall it—as bravery or stupidity—it makes us who we are today. I knelt in the park, and stopped breathing. The panic in my diaphragm increased as I sucked cock instead of air, and I had to choose.
Once upon a time, I could not choose. Once, my breath—my voice, even my singing—was taken against my will, brutally forced out of me, and stolen. And once, in lavish reckless brave foolishness, I gave up my life, so that one day—remote from me then as a star—I might live.
In the park, embracing his thighs and not breathing, I kept on, and the panic did not subside, but increased. It rose up, and up, and it went all the way, right up through me. And it left me. For a time, I was more powerful than anyone in my past. I finished the stud, and didn't need to rush a bit. I didn't need anything—I didn't even need to breathe. It was an uncommon victory and, though years ago, I still can taste it.
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