Downtown Sodom: The Black Cradle (So Many Eyes)

"Two Sodomites..." by Alessandro Bavari

With my feet and ankles tangled in a web of steel

Momentum becomes my lover...my tormentor...

Their whispers coat my skin

Their eyes fuel my flesh

Impaled on every downswing

Swinging backwards fills me with void 

I find stamina...I find satisfaction...

In a cradle of black leather.

     I never understood the saying, head over heels in love, because I was in the extreme opposite position...and I was deeply in love.  Wrapped in chains, my legs were almost behind my head as he fucked me in long and deep strokes.  Stroking.  Thrusting.  Pounding.  My body conforms to the details of his dick.  I felt every vein.  I felt every curve.  I damn near felt every pink and purple shade of his perfect cock.

     Silhouettes of voyeurs begin to swirl around us.  Hands begin to reach out.  I was being fucked in a sling for the first time before a hungry audience.  Daddy turns my insides into putty as a crowd of men circles around us. Watching them reach down to touch themselves...whisper back and forth with each other...licking their lips with their eyes focused on us...I felt charged by their mass arousal. 

     A voice shoots from the shadows, "Fuck that black pussy!"  The swarm starts to buzz: they're cheering for my Daddy, slapping his ass, wrapping their arms around his rocking body.  Suddenly, golden arms sprout from the unknown above my head.  Rubbing his hands up and down my sides, I can feel his erection bouncing on my shoulder.

     Curled into a swinging snatch, I couldn't see the man who was grabbing the base of my dick...Slamming me against my Daddy's hips...Massaging my shoulders and chest.  Pulling my legs even further back, I was surprised to find my toes in his mouth.

     His Spanish accent hisses over my head, "This is so fucking hot...Fuck that black pussy...You want his white babies?  All over your face?  I love your feet...so fucking hot."  His dirty mantra started to turn me on; he was in a deep zone.  In between swallowing my feet, he starts to speak louder, "He want your white babies, fuck that black pussy!"  Sloppily running his tongue across my soles, "All over his pretty face!"  This guy is proving to be quite the character.

"Three Voyeurs" by Alessandro Bavari

Downtown Sodom: Formicophilia (So Many Hands)

"The Angels of Lot" by Alessandro Bavari

     So many hands, touching me all at once.  Infinite fingertips, each with different approaches.... intentions...skill levels.  Some hands were strong gripping my muscles, others were soft caressing me with care.  Some roamed my entire body, others plugged their fingers directly into my asshole.  It was a gently jarring experience to have some many languages of touch whispering to me at once; overlapping.

Attempting to seduce me...

Attempting to reduce me...

Into a pliable, agreeable pair of opening legs, jaws and eyes.

  

     Swatting away the stabbing trespassers, I began to relax and allow them to cure their curiosities.  I could hear their thoughts buzzing around me: "Is he into nipple play?"  "How's his cock?  How does it taste?"  "How far will he let me go with his ass?"  "I've never pulled a black man's hair before...interesting."

     Reaching out and touching the bodies around me, I felt adored..I felt connected.  I was in the center of endless affection.  Out of the blue, my ass parts as a long tongue slides into me.  My spine stiffens as I position my hips to open further.  Biting someone's shoulder, I let out whimper as this stranger's tongue probes in and out.  Grabbing my ankles, the crowd gets excited.  Other mouths take the liberty of sucking my neck...my nipples...my cock.  Other tongues take the liberty of licking my face...inside my ears...all over my body.  My moans are becoming too loud for comfort.  Whomever's between my legs has a masterful mouth!

     Suddenly, I feel something warm spilling onto me...rolling down my skin.  This splash was followed by several more drops of white syrup.  Stroking myself with their cum, my pearls were cast along with theirs.  So many hands, rubbing me all at once.  The luster of my skin shines from the darkest shadows.  I was showered in foreign seed...and I loved it...and so did the man with the masterful mouth.

A Prologue to "Downtown Sodom"

     For almost a month, I've been trying to write about a singular occasion.  The 'backspace' key is worn out on my laptop, due to me typing...then deleting...typing...then deleting.  I've never had a subject this challenging to put into words.  My brain has been working overtime attempting to capture the chaos I experienced during my first visit to a bathhouse in Berkeley.

     My night was filled with bizarre characters, hot micro-connections and uncomfortable pleasures.  There were no introductions or farewells...no words...very little light.  Can poetry really capture the atmosphere of infinite foreplay and insatiable flesh?  Would words be able to translate the tension I felt being between caution and opportunity?  Hopefully, I can give this moment justice.

     Whenever I have difficulty, I always turn to my most twisted muse, Alessandro Bavari.  His art captures a disturbing space between fairy tales and fetish, which, oddly, takes on Biblical themes as a result.  Furthermore, his work is very dense with detail and layers; the second piece in this post is actually a close-up of the first picture.  Using his art work as inspiration, I'll be breaking my thoughts into different segments.  That night was so rich and eventful that it would be impossible for me to summarize into one piece.

     Warning: these entries are tangled with erotic and disconcerting material; please read with an open mind.  Feel free to make judgments, I am open to any questions or concerns regarding my take on public sex and other risky behaviors.  "Downtown Sodom" is my songbook dedicated to a night of random hedonism.

I: Formicophilia

II: The Black Cradle 

III: The Partialist Party

IV: Epilogue 

   

Voice

     My typically cheerful voice was replaced by a bizarre, whistling croak, "Thank you for calling, Lynnwood Suites."  My co-workers freeze into place.  The person on the other end of the phone hangs up.  I have some explaining to do.

     I can't tell them that I've spent my weekend screaming my head off; instead, I shrug, "I'm coming down with something."  Remaining wide-eyed; I imagine them recollecting their personal bouts with the flu or a cold, I'm sure none of them have ever sounded like this.  My voice sounds damaged, warped and mid-pubescent.

     With every word I attempt to speak, I am reminded.  The leather belt wrapping around my thigh, making me yelp with its sting.  Her thick, eternally erect strap-on carrying my voice to higher registers.  Her brutal, rhythmic thrusts making me shoot off with percussive profanity.  Damn!  Shit!  Fuck!  A part of me begs for her to cum deep inside of me to end the madness.  The other part of me slaps the former part for thinking something so stupid.

     How do you explain that?  How do you convince human resources to use a sick day because you've been fucked too hard, for too long?  I could pass this off as Strep Throat, but the marks around my neck are a dead giveaway for a good time.  A hangover would get more understanding.  My manager approaches me with kid gloves, "I have a project for you, we have to take inventory."  In other words, "You're scaring away customers, let's find you something to do in the back!"

    

Timophilia: Mario Sorrenti

No poetry...No thoughts...Just greed

I love this...

Wait, one more thing,
I want globs of money and jewels and cool status symbols...

...and naked chicks to deep throat random luxury items...

The Prize

I want to win a race for you

Strengthen my stride

Broaden my endurance

Reach the peak of my potential

Find your reflection in the gloss of my coat

The luster in my eyes

The sheen of my skin

Know that its your light bouncing off my body

Your shine gives me splendor

Testing the supremacy of our love

I leap without bounds

I dash beyond time

I relish the obstacles

Ushering the message of your stewardship

I want to bring home an award with your name on it

Pin medal after medal to your chest

Lace your walls with trophies and accolades

Just to symbolize the prize you've made of me

Simply put, you make me better...and the world should know.

The Eye of the Beholder

I

     Her sentence was shattered by heavy breathing, "If I...would've known...I would've got a pedicure."  Pulling her toes from my mouth, I suggest she relax by rubbing her ankles.  She doesn't want me to stop, but she's ashamed of the callouses...the chipped paint on her toenails...the toughness of her heels.
     Attempting to soothe her, "Shhhh," I take her foot into my mouth, weaving my tongue between each toe.  Tightly gripping the arms of my chair, her spine stiffens as she lets out a gasp.  She tilts her head back, partly to focus on the pleasure, partly to avoid eye contact.
     Slowly running my tongue from her heel, across the sole and back to her toes; I actually like her callouses.  I'm learning so much about her, the thick skin on the side of her big toes reveal that she walks pigeon toed.  People who walk pigeon toed tend to be bashful.  Her roughness on backside of her foot tells me that she spends a lot of time on her feet at work.  Sinking my teeth into the ball of her foot, her loud exhale is evidence: she needs this.
     Apologizing, she still hasn't fully relaxed, "I'm so sorry...I came over...right after work."
     "It's okay...I love the sweat," flashing her a smile, I wonder what it'll take to convince her: she's perfect.  It excites me to see her vulnerable in this way.  Her body's temperature is rising, her breathing is making her breast dance...she's loosens her hold on the furniture...
    

II

     He's been fucking me for hours.  My knees are glued to my forehead and I'm seeing stars.  He's so thick, sex with him is a mixture of lust and adjustment.  I want more of him, but not that much.  I want him to have his way with me, but run it past me first.  I normally consider my moans and whimpers sexy, but today I sound like I'm being stabbed by a butter knife.
     Mind of matter, I keep my back arched upwards...meeting his trusts with my hips.  He hisses, "This shit is fucking beautiful.  I wish you could fuck yourself, so you can see this."  I'm was so delirious, I didn't notice the iPhone until I heard the camera soundbite.  "That's pretty!"
     Withdrawing from me, he lays down next to me to show me the picture.  I felt betrayed by what I saw.  I looked like I was in labor!  I had blemishes where The Sun don't shine!  My hair was all over the place!  "Please delete this," I asked, too worn out to raise my voice.
     "How come? You're beautiful."
     "No, I ain't."
     "Well, I've been seeing you from this angle for a year and I love it."  How do you argue with that?  It was jarring for me because I've never seen that side of myself.  A realization humbles me instantly.  He finds, what I consider, the worst side of me beautiful.  He saw my twisted face and contorted body and sincerely called it "pretty".
     After asking myself for forgiveness, I request, "Could you e-mail me a copy?"