The very idea of a cock in my mouth has become banal.
I write this, even, while watching a video of a young man
gorging on the cock of another, his buttocks bouncing against the tennis shoes
he is still wearing, while wearing nothing else.
The stronger it gets, the softer the nuance.
That’s the proper way.
Wide open, we’re all just waiting.
Gloved, or ungloved, it’s all just objects in an
object: objectifying the thing that we
are looking and feeling at.
Fingers like a burnishing, or finishing off a turkey, a
whisper of total regard for the feast, while still panting at the prospect of denial;
so he denies himself.
Open, gape, he is our unknown.
Our always known.
