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1.
My feet look so absurd on your shoulder. My long skinny legs are pushed open; the widest arc of my angle is at my bony knees. I’m diamond-shaped and you are at the center. The soles of my feet frame your face. I see your dark weary eyes that have a slightly moody and mystical glint in the black pupils. Your face is slightly marred by the premature wrinkles around your eyes from hard outdoor work and too much sun exposure. I see the tough growth of a dark day-old beard that always seems to hover over your jaw; your high forehead and your cow-licked black hair that is glossy in the dim light. Your deeply tanned body is rising above me; a treasure trail of hair is flowing down your belly to your groin from the dark explosion of coarse hair across your chest. Your skin is taunt under heavy workman’s muscles marked with scattered moles down your biceps and forearms, and obscured by thick black fur. Your face is approaching mine; your chest shoves forward. I feel your heat and smell your earthy scent. That small role of fat around your abdomen bounces. At this moment, I’m breathing steadily and deeply in anticipation; I look to see my chest rise and fall. My ass is propped up on a pillow to make my asshole more accessible to your uncut cock. You begin to impale me. I inhale deeply as you thrust in; you close your eyes as you push. My feet perched on your shoulders look like a pair of parrots on a pirate. They curl their toes. My long narrow body tenses. It feels like it's being compacted until it opens up and slides down. You shove your way in. I can’t help but let you in. I’m immobile. Your calloused hands with the rough-cut nails pin my wrists to the bed, your weight holds them in place. It all feels good, swarthy and humid, a sensual animal pleasure. I giggle and try to stick my toe into your ear; you shrug to knock it away. So, I run it along your cheek and try to stick it into your mouth. You thrust in deeper to punish me, you press forward, pushing my legs further apart, shoving my thighs closer to my belly, squashing my nice diamond shape, pushing my hip joints to their limits, and curling my spine up. You blow your hot breath into my face through the clenched teeth of your set jaw. It hurts to get fucked this way, but that’s how you wanted to do me, rough and dominant. I like an innocent peasant maiden and you like a guerrilla commando intimidating his prey.
2.
Do you remember the first time I tried to kiss you? It was that night; on the day we first met, right outside the door of my apartment building. That day, you wanted to meet in public because you were weary of meeting strangers, but not someplace where someone might recognize you, so we met at a park in a secluded wooded corner of it, away from the children and their vigilant parents, and sat on a low stonewall by a stream bed; a low containment wall for when the stream floods during the spring rains. I brought my camera and took a picture of you sitting there. You didn’t want me to like it would be some kind of incriminating evidence. I told you; it was not like you were naked or doing something compromising, it’s just a picture of you sitting on a low stonewall by a stream bed, nothing you could be blackmailed over. So, you let me take the picture. A few days later I put that picture into a frame and set it on my desk. A sentimental act that I’m not prone to and embarrassed me as I did it. In the picture, you were looking uncomfortable, and wouldn’t look into the camera. You looked so handsome. You made me feel excited. That day I was so attracted to you, but I kept my hands to myself, except for when I put my hand on your thigh and later tried to kiss you at the doorstep of my apartment building. I put my hand on your thigh and you pushed it away, and told me you were confused and didn’t know what you wanted, but fantasized about being with another man. You wanted to go slow. How you have changed since then! Sometimes I think you can’t get enough of me, and amazingly, I’m grateful for that. That night I tried to kiss you and you turned your face away. So, I kissed you on your smooth cheek you shaved special for that day, and told you I enjoyed spending the day with you and would like to see you again. I told you goodnight and went up to my apartment leaving you on the doorstep. But not after I looked back over my shoulder to see if you were still there; to see if you lingered momentarily on my doorstep before departing. I watched from my bedroom window you walking down the street to your car and driving off into the night. Then I waited. You called me a couple of days later.
3.
Damn you, your romantic gesture made me feel sentimental. I hate that. That blockage in my heart—right here—softened for a while; that rigid place in my jawline that feels so tight, loosened. You took me to this wooded spot, a grove of pine trees temporarily outside of the sanctioned boundaries of the zoning laws where official surveillance couldn’t see (for now), a secluded garden spot before it was trampled by morality; an undeveloped tract of land that some greedy developer was going to bulldoze, just off the highway, to make room for another ugly conformist housing development laid out in neat angular grids. The company you work for was going to bid on landscaping those lots when finished (you told me later and spoiled the whole mood). That’s how you knew it was there because you went and looked to size it up for a bid. But it was still a nice gesture. You lit a Hawaiian torch and spread a blanket on the ground for us to sit on, and even brought wine. The mosquitoes were not too bad that night. I only was bitten by a few of those bloodsuckers. As the sun set, and the light turned down, the cicadas began their synchronized courtship song; that piercing, buzzing sound covered the noise from the nearby traffic hurriedly speeding along the highway. I took your head in my hands and ran my fingers down the rough black stubble on your cheek; my fingertips over your chin and lips, and could feel your breath exhaled over my knuckles. I looked into your languid eyes, and then your thick lashes closed over them. I bent down and kissed your shoulder and your day-old beard licked against my smooth cheeks. In the faint aura of the torch, the mosquitoes buzzed the flame; the moths dove for it, and a thunderstorm didn’t come to extinguish it. The weak light in the pine grove made more shadows than light. The light cast a warm glow that kept dodging over your features, illuminating your brow, and casting the shadow of your nose across your cheek, and then came my first real kiss on your warm lips, a momentary one without resistance, and your shy smile. You told me about how you would landscape the sub-development, the one promised by the billboard next to the highway. You would sculpt it with jasmine and honeysuckle to perfume a moonlit night. No evergreen bushes to attract bagworms to their branches, or termites to the roots, but full-growing, open-branched trees with deep green leaves in the full sun that turn red in the autumn chill. No dwarfed ornamental stuff. You made me want to see these limbs lifting their palms to the sun and smell these sweet scents hanging over the ground like morning fog, smothered by the night music of the cicadas and your invoked scent of the honeysuckle—I could almost smell it: mingled with the sharp pine and the sooty smell of the flame. I thought of tacky white picket fences and perfectly tended lawns without my usual revulsion. That night we shared whispers that were not weighted down with guilt, and the cicada’s night grind left unrevealed the darkness of your soul. The sound, the smells, and the darkness that enclosed us left you treachery unseen.
I wrote you a haiku:
Whispered words, light, touch
The assault of scent and sound
The resistance falls.
4.
You were standing in my living room and I put my arms around you from behind. You didn’t resist; you just stood there. That was before you first fucked me. I laid my cheek on your shoulder and asked if you were all right. You nodded you were. I was being patient with you. I was intensely yearning to have you in my bed. Your stoicism was frustrating me, so I stood there clasping you from behind, breathing your masculine earthy smell. The smell of your flesh mingled with the smell of the cologne you put on that day. I felt the warmth of your body. I turned my head to snuggle my nose into your freshly washed hair and smelled its light soapy scent and the odor of light perspiration along your hairline. That was when, without moving, you asked me how I do it. “Do what?” I said. You tried to change the topic, but I wouldn’t let you. “Do what, have sex?” I said. But from your voice, I knew you meant more than the mechanics of penetration and thrusting to an orgasm. I knew you had never been with a guy before, and only had a few random sexual encounters with women that were fleeting and never worked out. You told me these things the day we first met. I have no reason to disbelieve you, unlike most lying queers. It’s really painful for you to acknowledge these things: your loneliness, feelings of frustration; your desire to be normal, your urge to be deviant. It paralyzes you inside, making you inert. Your action can only result in failure. You believe, that if you act proper you will fail to find love; if you act as you yearn, you will fail to be good. It’s your dilemma. That’s when I decided I would find a way to liberate you from it, find a way out. It would be painful but you would be free. And then we could be free to face one another as one. But still, you said: “Nothing, forget it,” again.
I wrote you a haiku:
The thorns scratch my lips
When I suck those red roses
Out from your navel.
5.
We role-played one day a naughty sex game. You pretended to be a gardener, an illegal immigrant from El Salvador, so that’s what I called you: El Salvador, and you spoke only limited English, but knew the words “fuck me,” and all the relevant hand gestures, and even mimed a pelvic thrust and blushed at your crudeness. You pretended to plant a tree in my backyard as I sat on the patio watching you over my dark glasses, sipping Margaritas like some rich Anglo tourist leering at young flesh in a brothel in Tijuana. You wiped your sweaty forehead with a bandana that was stuck in the back pocket of your worn jeans. You flexed your biceps and stretched your body for me to see, showing off your chest and stomach, and slid both hands into the crouch of your pants over the bulge of your erection, even though you were deeply embarrassed. I knew I had to give you some relief. I gave you a coy smile and tossed my head to indicate for you to follow me. I drew you into the kitchen, so the neighbors wouldn’t see, pulled off my shirt, and clasped you around your neck. You ran your grubby fingers through my hair as I kissed you, and dragged your dirty fingernails down my back leaving scratches—you knew that would excite me. I asked you, where have you been hiding because you walk like a straight guy, from your knees, not your waist, with your feet pointing out. And then the rough Hispanic gardener fucks me; El Salvador has his way right there on the kitchen table. I like this game. Reality is not nearly as fun. I met you after responding to your internet personal ad, written in fluent English—you said you were “curious,” and are from San Antonio. I know you fuck me, not because I’m pretty, but because I’m easy. Afterward, you were ashamed and mad at me (you feel like that every time--afterward). I could blackmail you.
I wrote you a haiku:
Clandestine romance
Transposed from frown to grin
Repaint my clown’s face.
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