An Untitled Exchange

     You used to make me nervous.  Uneasy.  Something about your presence tripped an ancient alarm buried in my bones.  The way your body stiffens at the sight of me...Your speech pattern stutters as your eyes follow me across the room...Your arms hanging awkwardly in the balance between desire and decency.  I used to get a bad feeling deep down in my I hunger for you.

I've developed a fetish for disarming one's instincts, namely my own.

     Some animals smell fear, some pick up the scent of blood; my nose is keen on curiosity.  You've been wanting to touch me since the 70's.  You've been stripping me naked with your imagination since sharing a locker room with my Daddy.  For decades, you've dreamed that I was designed to deliver a dose of powerful...primal...passionate...pleasure and pain.  Just like my music. 

Today, curiosity begats courage.

     A moment of eye contact translates the truth: I see you.  I've had hundreds of your kind leeching off of my dick...Encountered enough of you begging to be fucked harder...I've broken enough backs to see you coming a mile away.  Your offering winks at me from the seat of your pants, both your asshole and your wallet.  I'll accept both.  For, let's face it, I'm out of your league.  I'm young, black and're quite the opposite.
     You used to make me nervous.  Confused.  I'm no thug or savage.  I'm no machine or stud.  Yet, you beg me to fuck you heartlessly and brainlessly...Beg me to fuck you detached from mercy and sympathy...Beg me to fuck you like there's no tomorrow or yesterday...Until you gulp the next generation thirstily down your throat.  Ironically, my ancestors prayed for the day their babies would choke you.  Today, I'm impressed you can swallow them so smoothly.
     Your fingers reach down to touch your sore offering, you smile as if a dark debt's been paid.  Was it all that you've imagined?  Was my stroke strong enough to break through?  Was my dick long enough to reach your heart?  The tears in your eyes suggests that it was. 


ToddyEnglish said...

First of all those pictures ally themselves PERFECTLY with the message. After reading it I felt jarred.
This posting brought out my inner Michael Evans(haha).
First of all...
I love the way you intertwined fetish with exploitation.
Moreover, I found myself compelled to question the motivations of not only the "exploiter" but the socalled "exploited" as well.
In my opinion they are both exploiting each other.
The black fetishist (from my point of view) is indulging his mandingo warrior fantasy whereas the object of desire is fulfilling some grandieose/narcissistic need to be wanted and adored within the context of this willing victim/benign predator dichotomy.
Furthermore, I like the way you described the subject as being outside the standard thug archetype. The TYPE did not matter so much as the "size" and color (i.e. big black man/any big black man will do).
It's just another facet of the auction block; however, in this instance, the "slave" is a willing participant.
This was really neat!

Forbidden Light said...

I felt like Michael Evans writing this piece! It was probably the strangest creative experience I've had to date...

Your interpretation is spot-on, it represents a merge of several dichotomies...With sex, mindless fucking can pave the way for deep knowledge. Absolute servitude can be used to totally exploit the recipient. Two predators can form a symbiotic arrangement where they prey on each one's truly on top...

Thank you for insight, Toddy!



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