Wednesday, March 23, 2011

SELF PORTRAIT

By David Mitchell

 I arrived at midnight.
The John — fifty five, claiming forty two — was an okay guy, pleasant enough. As we talked, smoked, I pretended not to recognize a work of Georgia O'Keefe which sprawled over the wall directly in front of me.
In a bedroom of glass, the Man of Wealth admired my cock. "Perfect," he said. "Beautiful. I'm a connoisseur, you know. Only the uncircumcised. " Slipping on a robe — his body older than his face — he added, "Lie back. Please." The scene unfolded. Starting with my feet, slowly he began to bathe my body with his tongue.
He was good. Damn good.
As my head unwound, it did a number of its own; sort of boogied, you know, easy-like.
Suddenly, I was on a different plane. It was as if an unknown attic room had been opened in my mind. I began to understand things I'd paid no attention to before, saw connections between so called separate entities. Man, everything was connected — the past, the future, you, me, everything.
I understood for the first time, the link between sex and the spirit; how truly spiritual people arrive at that through excesses of the body. It made so much sense, explained so much. Why, for instance, "good" people were such shitheads; why the "bad" were more often kind.
Glancing at paintings over the bed, I had another shock. I saw that design and personality were the same thing. I recognized in several abstracts, the personalities of recent sexual contacts.
The whole thing was blowing my mind.
While the John was blowing my body.
One of the pictures caught and held my attention. It was shades of the earth, a touch of sky and water. It grabbed me just the way that guy had the other night. He was of the earth, his blue eyes were liquid sky . . .
. . . watching a fuck film, a husky, corn fed one beside me took a firm grasp of cock. Meeting no resistance, he undid the buttons of my fly. Doing the same for him, I saw that he had one of the biggest I'd ever seen, groped, whatever. Filling both my hands, there was plenty left over, top and bottom.
"You should be up there on the screen," I whispered.
"I'll be in the next one," he confided. Leaning over, he tickled my piss hole with a two day growth of beard. "As a matter of fact . . . I'm not supposed to tell you this . . . but, both of us will be in the next one."
"What do you mean?"
"We're being filmed now . . . special camera." Seeing a question, a recognizable one in my eyes, he chuckled. "We'll get two bills apiece." I could tell it was the truth. "Do you want to leave?" he asked.
"No . . ." We smiled at each other. "It's good to be working again."
"Shiiit." He had a good face. "Kiss me, man," he said, nice and friendly. His tongue was sweet. Sucking, biting it, the chemistry was perfect. I wanted him — on me, in me, every way we could do it.
As he stripped off his shirt, he helped me out of mine. I could see and feel the lights coming up, getting stronger on us. Men in the theater stopped watching the imitation action on the screen, turned to get a look — that quick smell, liquid animal excitement — of the real thing. "Follow me, man." Cocks leading the way, we walked easily to the stage. Spots, warm as midday August, followed us.
Sitting on rough planks, I untied my shoes, slipped down my jeans. From the audience, the sounds of zippers, other adjustments as Pleasure descended on the dusty, dank room where anonymous men no longer were afraid of Truth . . .
. . . meanwhile, back at the ranch, Midnight Cowboy (in a glass enclosed hayloft) was going okay.
Manipulating my legs, the John rolled me onto my stomach. Quick-like, his tongue filled my asshole. Eyeballs straining (much like cock and balls were) I concentrated on another picture, discovered in vivid blues and yellows, the personality of a German who last week took me to the baths . . .
. . . a man of perhaps forty, masculine as a stallion's cock, his chiseled face bore vivid blue eyes, slightly thinning blond hair (the portrait).
Paying me in front of nude and partially nude men in the locker room, he watched as I stripped, intervened when I was about to knot a towel around my waist.
"I'll take that," he said in thick accent. "Go to the orgy room." Excited by my nakedness, liking the order, the idea of once more being bought, I put swagger into my steps. The German beckoned for the pack to follow.
In a large musty room, daylight filtering through cracks on painted windows, naked men, beautiful in twos, threes, groups, reverted to a more innocent time when bodies and sex were clean.
Lifting me onto an army type bunk, the German hopped up beside me while below us, a performance of sexuality; a beautifully choreographed ballet — the sounds of men moaning, sucking, fucking. Painfully, I was reminded that I wanted never to die. That none of us want ever to die; that we must seek what beauty we can in the little time we have.
Taking in the incredible display — smelling sweat, the sweetness of cum, the acidity of piss and shit — the German Officer sucked my tits. His, when they were offered, stood at attention, saluting the maneuvers surrounding us.
On our left, pleasure sounds mounted. At the edge of a sprawling community bed, a young man had three cocks in his mouth. Trading tongues, my Officer and I shifted our gaze from that scene to the inner person who stared back at us — through the "mirrors of the soul . . ."
. . . as my John's tongue caressed the folds of my ass, I thought of the white hot poker I sat on as I faced that square jawed hunk. Adjusting to his thickness as best I could, I was aware of other bodies joining us. In the center of the top bunk, I was surrounded by cock. With King Kong up my ass, I had one in each hand; one, sometimes more, in my mouth. Other rubbed against my back, my tits, my legs.
Somehow I was lifted, placed in strange positions. Gravity ceased to exist. Cocks from different positions, strange angles, entered my ass, my mouth. Rivers of hot cum ran over my body, scalded my tits, my cock, and my ass. Rough hands rubbed it deeply into me, roughly over my face. Ears, eyelashes, nostrils were covered.
Recognizing the thickness of German cock at my mouth, I opened to receive a river of sperm. It was tart, like the stolen green apples of youth. Vitalizing my body, I felt it charge instantly into energy, muscle and blood . . .
. . . the backs of my legs, my ass, damp and sticky from the trip 'round the world, the John was putting finishing touches on my back. Rolling me once more, he devoured my tits. Happily, I realized they would be black and blue for days . . .
. . . a black and blue picture with — yes — weights of steel grey. My uncle, my staggeringly handsome wet dream uncle . . .
. . . in the workout room, only two of us remained. Tom, my mother's brother, was in his prime; blue-black hair curled lightly over a fantastically defined body.
Testing one another, easing into it, we removed our shirts, shoes, shorts. Down to our jocks, we continued to pump iron. Eyes meeting more and more frequently in mirrors, our cocks swelled inside tight elastic.
Rather boldly, first he and then I began to pose for the benefit of the other. At a given signal, a glint in his eyes, softly, simultaneously, we stripped off our jocks. Cocks, free to breathe, responded with joy. His was beautifully, perfectly formed. Blue-black hair, a jungle, surrounded it.
Our hands circled, held tight, blessed and caressed our manhood. Happy, totally relaxed, we continued to pump it up — until pecs, biceps, thighs, matched the hard on of our cocks. Watching in glass, juices appeared on cockheads, dripped to the floor.
We did mirror image things without mirrors. Striking a pose, one of us would reverse and duplicate it. Hard on muscles danced, paraded, rippled; our bodies, hard as cocks, strained.
Advancing slowly toward each other, cocks jumped, screamed. Tips inches apart, we strained, fighting to hold back orgasm. Slipping our foreskins back and stealing a quick taste from our fingertips, piss lips met in a fantastic embrace. The second of contact, frenzied balls spat forth life — covering us, dripping from our bodies onto the rug . . .
Gazing at the last of the pictures, I realized that it was of me, done by me, a self-portrait. Red and purple and fuchsia — the colors of cock in erection — the message was clear: Cock, sucked by this Holy Man was Kindness in Life, Beauty!
God, I wish I had a movie of it. I'd watch it instead of going to church; light holy candles before it. I'd show it to the world, watch it myself — into old age and infirmity. I'd jack off to it, my cock and my brain; my body and my soul.
Let me tell you how it was:
This guy, this fucking expert did things to cock that had never been done before. I tell you, it sat up and begged for more. And the size of him. We'll, hell man, I mean I know cock and big he gets. But, Jesus, that time he outdid himself.
The John was busy as hell, connecting all kinds of vibrators, different things to cock. He had six or eight going at the same time. Some were on my balls, some on mountain-tall pulsing veins. He had creams, oils, ointments, all kinds of things; all producing different, fantastic sensations. They were crazy, man — crazy.
One of them — well, what can I say? — like little people; tiny, little people with maddened dancing feet, doing the Charleston on my prick. It was too fucking much!
A few ointments, whatever, he applied; evaporated the instant of contact. They seemed to pull cock and me heavenward. (Everything that was good was Life; the most beautiful, part of Life was Sexuality!)
John had a spicy smelling one. Seeing my pleasure at it, he shoved some up my ass. I started laughing like a hoot owl. I was the happiest damned kid you've ever seen.
I quick-glanced green jelly. Spreading it abundantly over my pubic hair, the hair of my ass, Angleman waited expectantly. Damned if cock and ass hair didn't stand up, start twisting around each other. It was like they were fucking, especially those wild ones up my ass.
Spreading the stuff everywhere, John made sure to get it in as many places as possible — in my ears, nose, mouth, far, far up into my brain. With a straw, he blew some up my ass, my cum tube. I felt it ooze sweetly, slowly into my balls.
How can I explain how I felt? How it was from moment to moment? Oh, sweet Jesus! You know how good your cock feels when it's in the right asshole? Well, my whole body felt like that. Every time I breathed, I was flooded with new, deeper sensations — like cock feels when it makes those first easy going thrusts. Like it's so good you could die and not care.
I had this image in my mind that I was a six foot cock fucking a six foot asshole. The hair on my head was pubic hair and the rest of me was cock. I was being swallowed, pressed, kissed by a six foot asshole.
I switched back and forth, back and forth from being all cock to being total asshole.
In the process, I was sanctified, made clean. There was no anger left in me, no hatred. I wanted the best for myself, my friends, for everybody!
I died and was born again. I came; then there was the second coming. It was that, the unexpected one, which converted me, made me a believer. I knew then that Life, Life-giving Sex, was a miracle . . .
. . . it was so good that, momentarily, I considered declining the cash.
But, I said to myself, John has more than enough.
Saying goodbye and thanks, I left him sitting there with Georgia O'Keefe.

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