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
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.
Beating your skin, you said, “I want you to hit me,
to choke me and fuck me, fracture all thinking
into moments of spent, concentrated blinking
as I try and reframe us in this new light.”
But this drama you’re living is far too fantastical
when these methods of speech he operates with are farcical.
Your cry out for help but it just sounds like bluffing
since your situation’s, at best, only mildly disturbing
in the grand scheme of things, but to you it’s a dead end;
an action hero lost with the walls closing in.
You open your window to reflect all your smoke out
and are deafened by suburban house alarms.
And ours is a time when all sorts of connections
dissipate the prospect of true absolution.
Not from some archetype needing flocks of new groupies
but from the pressure and weight of four a.m. truths.
And caustically challenged, you bow like a hausfrau.
Your bleatings diffuse, or at least drown him out.
Pre-emptively panicked, you prefixed the beat down,
safe knowing that all you lost was your own ground.
And as your revenge, you lower your glamour.
You stop flicking out your tongue, or dressing for dinner.
This sexless offensive you brandish like armour
until you’re just another cliché, sitting waiting in the dark.
Despite your own maleness, you fail to realise
that anger confronted soon after then dies.
Your arm in his arm, you field out the stares.
You’re happy right then with your still picture prize.
But you can’t expect him not to emote;
to live like a myth, to commit without heart,
just ’cause you’re scared of hitting a note
that forces you out of your sheltered facade.
And the first time he cried, you were useless to him
Still viewing him as one-dimensional sin
And brushing off his tears, eyes closed, by rote
You whispered “I love you” and put his hand round your throat.
It’s all about what I see on screen and so, so quickly, I can end up wanting to run screaming from the conversation. I know that, like me, people on the internets are human beings, but when their sentences mysteriously sprout exclamation marks everywhere and the remaining text looks like it’s been typed by a dyslexic drunk, I start to doubt our common bond and feel the need to Ctrl+Alt+Del as fast as I can. Only Godspeed You! Black Emperor are allowed that kind of grammatical error.
Continuing in this vein, another bugbear of mine would be cAPSLOCK (accidental or otherwise): I know you probably don’t think anything of it, but to me, someone who uses a computer for hours everyday, it’s the semiotic equivalent of shouting. So, you know, don’t. (I should explain: I studied English in college. Twice.) It makes me feel like you’re a builder roaring down at me, or worse, that you’re right beside me, in a quiet pub, bellowing your chat-up lines at me. Of course, on the internets, chat-up lines are obsolete. There’s no real fear of rejection, just the closing of a chat window.
However, out of all of annoyances arising from chat rooms, the one that aggravates me the most is the idiotic dance of “Yes, I’ll send you my facepic/Yes, I have a facepic/Yes, I have a face” which always ends up with me out of messages without anything back from them, and to make matters worse, half the time they manage to sound justified in not sending their pictures back, at least to themselves. I always send mine out of politeness. And politely explain to them what a lie is.
And that’s the problem really with the internet; there’s no accountability. If someone wants to be an asshole to you, they can and will be. People’s neuroses can just spill out in the text box of the chat window; I once got lifted out of it to the point that I was scared to go on the dating internets for a while when I had the gall to end a conversation with a couple of innocent enough kisses towards this guy who I had spent a day or two chatting to rather intimately.
Also, I think the reason why I don’t fare particularly well in the world of internet dating is the problem of tone. There’s a couple of people I can properly chat to online and understand them clearly; we’ve chatted so often that tone is either apparent, or designated by some understood term (such as 
, 
or ajgklajglkajg) but apart from them, chatting on the internet is hard. You sound flat, and uninteresting, and then when you try to sound more like yourself (which is of course odd, because you already are yourself) you end up a hyper version of you.
Of course, all of that could be inaccurate and there could just be no hot cock in my area. Not that I’m looking for hot cock, you understand. Well, I am, of course. And that’s the problem. There’s times you’re looking for conversation and friendship, but you’re always aware there’s the option to hunt for a dial-a-fuck; something that most of us have done, at least once, if not more. For some, that’s all they want whilst others are looking for more. None of this is particularly new, and it’s been mentioned before by others, but it’s still there, and therefore worth repeating. The interesting thing that seems to have escaped the general eye on this topic is that you can be looking for both at the same time: one part of you could be scanning through the thumbnails for a quickie whilst another part of you could be reading profiles, working through your subconscious mental checklist.
Ideally, when I end up chatting to someone online, after the requisite (and generally indefinable) amount of time, I’d ask them out (and sometimes, they’d ask me). You know, to try and move things into the real world. Sometimes it would work, and other times it wouldn’t, but even so, it’s better than typing. You need to hear the person’s voice, see how their face reacts, how their mouth moves when speaking and how their body hangs on them. How funny their jokes are in the harsh and unforgiving light of an overcrowded fast food restaurant.
But in the end, I keep coming back, flipping through the catalogue of possibilities (or as Bill Bailey would say, “the Laminated Book of Dreams”) hoping that one day, the person for me will shine through the endless one-liners of the chat room. And in fairness, I’ve only deleted my profile once out of frustration in nearly ten years, so I’m doing okay.
‘Til Next Time
x (god, signing kisses at the end of a conversation is so gay, why do you have to be so gay, seriously…)
