It doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense when you think about it. Two people coming together for an act of insertion. It’s awkward, at times uncomfortable and takes a while to ‘start’. It’s miles away from graceful: on your knees staring at the wall or on your back staring at your knees; the figure of him appearing through your thighs like a jack-in-the-box. But still, I want to get fucked.
There are a million different reasons why and why not to but the foremost among them is pleasure. But it’s more than that. Who wants sex that’s just external? How then do you get to know anyone? And isn’t that what it’s about? Isn’t that why I want to get fucked?
Unlike when, as a baby gay with a superglue hard-on, if you’re not effeminate (or rather if you think you’re not effeminate) you’re basically a straight man in the sack; you’re doing the fucking, you’re on top you powerful thing you, and everything’s alright with the world. Having dealt with being this tough baby gay for so long, you’re not ready to get fucked, to let someone inside of you because you’re so masculine. As you get older, you probably will fuck for different reasons, most of them pleasure I’m sure, but at the moment, I don’t want to hear about your issues, I want to get fucked.
By your cock that can perform magical feats alongside your hands (resting squarely on my shoulders like an architect’s dream) and you’re on top; covering every bit of me with the weight of you. Nerve endings being active in this passivity. Poppered-up blood vessels are beating to the rhythm of a bad dance track. Memory is an aphrodisiac and now I really want to get fucked.
Because I’m in need of pleasure and right now, topping is just an ejaculation exercise. I want you to make me cum without me touching myself. I want your attention focused on me for however long. I want to feel the depth and sensation. Obviously, I want to get fucked.
You see, it’s not about submission but control (although both are pie-chart fragments of the why, but in the moment, who cares?). I grab you and feed you into me. It doesn’t matter that you should know exactly where to apply your pressure – one of the benefits of being the same sex, surely? – because it’s easily rectified, leading to a life, a night, a short period of time where the pleasure’s condensed but completely worth it. Rough or loving, fleeting or nightly, with a lover or a trick, I want to get fucked.
It can be a calm blue ocean, a catharsis. Where the minutiae fall away. You can get drawn into that, growing from a baby gay into a jaded gay. It will wash over you like the sack on your head in a kidnapping and you will appear externally to be a cliché; a sad fed-up queen with her eyes closed, avoiding everything except the cock in her mouth. Everyone needs to get out of themselves occasionally. People drink and take drugs for these reasons, and some fuck. We’ve all done it, and some more than others, but to attach shame onto it would be ludicrous. Some days being a bottom is much easier than being a person. But despite that having been the motivation from time to time, that’s not the reason why I want to get fucked.
It’s because it’s natural. Mr Supreme Being (or lack thereof) is a clever duck creating somewhere that will fit cocks of all shapes and sizes. Man is a curious beast and all manner of items, including the cock and its disciples have explored the lovingly receptive orifices we have to our use. The mouth, the ass and the glory hole; all of His creations. As is the g-spot. The little place inside you working solely to get you off. Life is a series of passions and absences, phalli and holes. And I want to get fucked.
~
Hiatus still active, found this from a while back, and thought I’d share. Working on new things. Play went great. This month has been so busy. Type soon. x
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….MIK is on hiatus. I’m really busy with doing music and putting out stuff on my record label at the moment, so that’s taking up a lot of my time. As is fretting over/thinking about/gearing upto my short play which is on as part of this year’s International Dublin Gay Theatre Festival.
I hope to bring back MIK and I would rather stop for the time being than putting up sub-standard work. Also, of all the times to take a break, MIK’s 21st/coming of age seemed appropriate. Please, please do subscribe via email so you’ll know when it’s back.
Thank you all for reading, and I hope to start posting again soon.
A year before I was legal, you took me to your pride and joy; your local and announced at length to your mildly interested fellow patrons that it was my eighteenth birthday and bought me a Miller. Clearly, because of your exuberant introduction, they knew that I was underage, but this being outside the city, the announcement of something to celebrate was enough. I had been to a couple of pubs before you, but you didn’t know this. You hadn’t asked. You thought it was this great, big thing to bring me for my first pint. And it was.
In years that followed, I stopped drinking Miller as it made me too groggy, too sluggish; no matter what time of the evening, it would leave me slumped on the sofa, dreaming of my duvet. Also, behind my back, and one would presume in the heat of the moment (or am I making excuses?), you called me a faggot, raging against everyone around you, having managed to cut yourself out of your own life.
By the time I reached twenty-one, you meant almost nothing to me, except maybe as an appropriate target to be angry at, but as a child, you were one of my idols. I didn’t look upto famous people, I had you, but you could never give me enough attention, I realise now, so you abruptly stopped trying, leaving me waiting for someone to materialise, pick up the second controller, and press start.
Of course, it was only as a grown-up that I started to begin to understand what Being a Man is. I’m not saying I understood completly; I still don’t, but I’ve got a fair idea. However, it’s something I can’t accurately describe: it has to do with maturity, self-awareness, strength, and security, as well as a number of other factors, none of which are machismo, or braggadocio, or sports, or alcohol. It’s the thing that you can point out in others, but can’t explain why when asked to show your work. As a kid, I thought you were it: I imagined your headshot underneath the dictionary definition, but by the time I was twenty-one, I realised that you could never be it and, in my head, raised a pint to you; the one that seemed to almost pass.
You bleat
about life changing experiences
but if it came to murder,
you’d get the job done,
unemotionally, so dispassionately
that your back slappers hands would clasp
over their own mouths. Whispering
to each other, of how you’ll fall apart,
if not the next time alone, then
in some quiet moment late at night
or early in the morning. They
imagine you quietly crying so as to not wake
your sleeping woman, holding something;
some rosary-beads, something you took
from your victim; something that you can look
at, and beat yourself up over. They are wrong
because they assume you have a soul.
For the past few nights, before sleep, I’ve truly realised that you’re going and that we’re not going to see each other for a very long time, if ever again, and selfishly, I am sad.
This isn’t sexual love, so don’t confuse it for that.
It’s like human machines; an exercise we did in drama college: one person makes a repetitive gesture and the next person’s gesture is to interact in some way with it until the whole class is doing it. These are how the memories echo.
You fucked through my gig. At the time, I took it as a bizarre compliment but now it feels more like a negative gesture, like avoiding the Biggest Day of My Life like the plague, earlier this year. But then what did I expect? I expected the person in my head. But of course, I got the person you are.
But don’t let that sound negative. We all have our flaws, our foibles, the different sides to us. Of course, we are all ultimately selfish in our own ways; it’s human nature. You’d be the first to admit this. Despite all of that, I think our greatest achievement was not understanding each other (which we did from the get-go) but learning as friends to accept each other for what we are, not for what we wanted each other to be.
I will miss you.
This change will be good. And it’s time. Like scrying, it’s hard to put a finger on, but you know that it’s time. I will miss you, the fun we had, the easiness we shared.
Your going-away present isn’t something new. But none of this is either.
Goodbye fucker, I love you. Don’t look back. Ever.
A poetry cycle set in a post-apocalyptic Dublin
1. Cut-Up
I remember your face / You do?
Fingers fidget with hems
Cody / I’m Jack / Hours Pass / I gotta see you again / You do?
Heartbeat errata, language failure
Face touch and hand plan
Your fingers are soft, mine are calloused /
Don’t be so silly, they’re fine /
Shallow breath, in time to blinking
Associate stage hands write new lines.
They pull the blinds as the over-the-clothes stuff
Becomes more obvious. Breathless. Blind.
The balcony wobbles in love.
3. Drive-By
Our spit, saliva dripped
From these idiotic lips
Towards some river or some ocean
The ice caps have no maps
Uncharted, to be fixed
Four men and a blowtorch is sarcasm
I dismiss this because this is
A pulse on some infernal list
A miniature of what actually happened
Fucking blowtorched the “cold sore”
A response to some squabble, war
You can’t prepare for liquid genocide
The earth is a flood plain
Warnings are not seen as inane
And the speed at which it visits has the full effect
5. High-Rise
Spitting out the gay gene via retail therapy,
Searching for that something just for you.
The buildings are made of chemicals
And you can’t see the sidewalk.
I levitate, at great expense, to you.
Solids into liquids: as without is as within;
An animalistic urge to fuck you.
With a sun comprised of lasers
And rowboats with added fountains
I’m staying in this bed right here with you.
One good stir and we’re done for, I put my arms around your waist,
You smoke for me and take in the view.
Another escapee’s lost their footing
Propelled along as a warning,
Our stairs have evaporated too.
We kiss; our dry lips a frictionless rune, a self-contained vacuum.
I clasp your hips, chalk up the miss and close your eyes, it’s gonna be soon.
There’ll be no MIK tomorrow as I’m away in Cork at the moment and haven’t anything pre-prepared. Also, I’ve other writing to finish when I get back as I’m going to have a short in this year’s International Dublin Gay Theatre Festival. It’s called The Middle Distance, and is a reworked scene from Perfect Paragraphs.
~
Of course, the real reason I came away is that I’m fast on the trail of Mary Christman. There were a couple of verified sightings of her on the west coast of Ireland. So far, the bars aren’t proving helpful. Surely, her resting place must be around here somewhere. It’s due to snow here tonight, so maybe the Winter Wonderland will rouse her christmas horribleness from her pit. I’ve got my crossbow prepared…
It’s been one hundred years since the beginning of the Great Reduction, and it’s certainly been energy efficient, cost effective and other buzz words that now seem clunky and unwieldy. No time for full sentences, one must push through words falling over each other, and teach our children that contractions are the original. There is no ‘it is’ anymore. We are so done with separateness. We are far more unified, and in this common language, we understand the laborious nature of ‘it is’; the supreme waste of time of ‘hello’ when ‘hi’ will do just nicely, the endless internment of ‘goodbye (whoever)’ when a thumb pressed to a forehead when hugging each other goodbye accomplishes the same thing. Society teaches children to talk in shorthand by not telling them their true linguistic origins. There are government scientists working on telepathy as a mass method of communication, looking to negate all of this horrendous clacking of tongues and teeth – this endless noise. It’s nearly ready, it’s finishing its final round of tests. Soon, it will be rolled out, and we will forget that there ever was a time without it. Business meetings will be like silent discos. Radio stations in your head as you drive. But of course, telepathy is dangerous too. You’ve got to shield, and you have to think in shorthand. You can’t transmit long, rambling sentences that don’t appear to go anywhere. A character in Chinese, or in shorthand can express as much as a well-punctuated sentence. Who needs cadence? Get in and get back out, back to HeadRadio, back to your silent conversion of HeadWaves into music.
The list of questions is frankly ridiculous. Broken-hearted and trying to rouse myself from sobbing another day away, I convince myself that clarity is the only saviour. That answers will help.
So I make up a list of questions, which I actually write down. I fill up an a4 page of when’s, where’s and why’s, thinking that the answers will dissolve this pain but instead, it’s the actual making of the list that helps; it reorders the world into a clear objective, a clear denotation of time. I’m so grief-stricken that I think the answers will help.
But then, words have been meaningless since I actually felt my heart crack at the news. Please do not mistake this for metaphor. I felt a bright throb in my chest that caused me to grab my tit like something Freudian. I left.
Of course, there are those that refuse. Those that clog waves with all of that unnecessary clutter. All of those responses are based on emotion, and not logic, not order, or an object-focused goal. Language is the arsenal of the young, but they too will one day be old, embittered and tired. They will see its futility. Questions get answered anyway, one way or another. First telepathy, then ascension. Who needs to talk when everything can be seen objectively?
Absent-mindedly, I actually tick off the questions as I hear the responses. Not “get answers”, but hear what’s being said, desperate to hear what’s being said, knowing that this is the one chance to hear the truth. Explanations drift into consonants; the weight of emotion having stolen the vowels from between us.
I cover every base. I need to hear everything. To flesh out the scene in my head, and of course, I half-realise, to amplify the pain. I need to listen, because I know this is the last time that I can possibly accept what you’re saying as truth.
These stories were passed down. Acquired by families bored with their own legacies from men whose love could bear no spawn, they told these tales until they became DNA, until they became breath, but then they too were forgotten, trampled by the wealth of information or entertainment now available with a single thought. But now, having become a mere fact of life, the HeadWaves are sparse enough to be filled by the ramblings of a man thousands of years dead. So we can feel again. Circuits may overload in some candidates, but it’s really all or nothing. The time of growing religion is over, it is now a backdrop, a trompe d’oeil on a window blind pulled down one night; a city thinking they’re staring at the real thing.
Conditioned by films, I thought that finding out the details would make it easier, would make it better, that at least I’d be able to slot it into place in perspective of the world. But it didn’t. And right now, there is only crying uncontrollably in the hallway, there is only the physical absence of him.
I burned his hoverbike and hacked into HeadRadio after a day of watching the natives sunbathe; couples laughing as the sun’s rays burnt off their top layer of skin, leaving them with a freshly cooked tan underneath. We live in a world where even the sun has been modified to suit our needs. I grew up in a world of vocal economy. My revenge is the unfiltered thoughts of the lovelorn sick. It will overload the normals. It will make people feel again. He’s moved offworld, knowing that I could never afford the trip. This HeadWave will make people feel again. These words shall rip them out of their normality. Don’t they know he’s gone, and that he’s not coming back? Eyes closed, I manipulate the code and push it out strong enough to leave this planet. They need to know. He needs to know.
For this competition.
I’m vaguely fascinated by David Britton/Savoy Books. I’ve read the follow-ups to Lord Horror (last book to be banned in the UK); Motherfuckers and Baptised in the Blood of Millons. I like his overarching ideas, but his prose is terrible. Clunky, heavy stuff that just doesn’t sit right with me. I do however enjoy his comic series, particularly the comic series Meng and Ecker. Anyway, they had great prizes in this competition, so I wrote a microfiction for them (which is exactly the 100 words they asked for), and forgot to send it in.
Untitled
Looking at Meng’s frankly ridiculous breasts, I realise that if the trend for social cybernetics had’ve reached England, his tits would resemble a cyborg Madonna. It is clear to me now that sexual freedom can only be accompanied by violence. He flutters his eyelids, cockteasing, confusing me but then that’s his kick – confusing everyone with his trans body. Being gay, I mutter to myself, I’m more secure? He holds a lighter in front of me, as if I had a cigarette, and says, “Your labels won’t last in the fire, will they?” and with that he stops the tape recorder.
I’ve started to succumb to the fact that no matter how I try not to, no matter how far I subconsciously try to push you out of frame; some part of my heart will always resurrect you.
There are parallel universes, not too many altered decisions away from our own, where we are living in a daydream, successful careers and each other to come home to. This was your daydream, remember? Faced with this situation, the last thing we needed was my sledgehammer honesty: you ran.
Months will go by without a flicker and then I’ll be asphyxiated by your smile, strangled by your eyes, choked by your kiss – to him.
And, of course, like all pain, it comes and goes, it isn’t constant. But my feelings are. I could lie and say that you aren’t what I want, I could fib and say that you aren’t who I compare people to, but if you wanted me, and had’ve had the guts to do something about it, I’d be yours. But that isn’t ever going to happen, so I’ll continue, hoping to find someone else to repattern my heart around.
Because you’re the worst thing: the one that never was. You are godlike in your physical absence and your unlimited breadth of possibility. But not everything is possible.
