Heirophilia: The Sea of Sodom

       One hundred and forty-four thousand spirits beaming into Heaven boils down to that handful of people I've been wanting to fuck.  For so long, I wanted to see their flesh unclothed.  My tongue longs to taste the salt of his seed...sugar from her lips and walls.  The weight of these mysteries on my mind tether me to this Earth...too heavy for the Heavenbound to be raptured.
     The Sea of Sodom washes upon the shores of Canaan, bathing its beaches with impure ambitions.  My most carnal desires are unlocked by prophecy.  The promise of unyielding judgment inspires me to forfeit all control; abandon all caution.  The potential of my lusts going unfulfilled intoxicates me.

I am not alone

     The Wine of God's Wrath crashes to the pavement, soaking the naked backsides of faggots and whores.  Intersections and alleys are filled with mass debauchery.  Trembling toes point to the seven stars prophesied by David.  Spurting cum paints the blood red moon white again.  The candlesticks... The cups...  The swords... Are all swiped from the altar to provide a clean surface to fuck upon recklessly.
     Bodies, so many bodies, writhe and copulate.  Pleasures upon pleasures feeds my gluttonous eyes. My body empathizes with the orgasms of my neighbors, shuddering with them.  Dancing.  Moaning.  Laughing.  Bathing in the dark waters of Sodom, I realize, "We've been raptured into Heaven."  Abundant pleasure.  Freedom from fear.  Total extravagance.  This is Heaven.

"Major Arcana" by Jak Flash

Beautiful Womb II: Abstand

     The cute reading glasses.  The pearl-adorned kurta.  The brown curls mangled by a good afternoon nap.  I miss your hazel gaze greeting me as I return home from work.  Working on your laptop.  Sipping on a glass of Orangina.  The light filling your face upon my arrival gave me a second wind.  The beverage... The laptop... The glasses... The kurta...soon found themselves on the floor as did my suit and tie.

Distance is a beautiful womb
Birthing new jewels every day.

     Dark chocolate hitting my tongue fills my heart with longing.  Licking avocado from my fingers makes my pants especially uncomfortable.  Yo-Yo Ma sounds off-key without your toes in my mouth.  Your daily absence has been a daily reminder: I have a heart.  And, this heart twists and throbs whenever I make dinner for one.

     Poetry fills my head as your side of the bed grows colder.  My senses sharpen as I struggle to find your fading scent on the pair of briefs you've left for me.  I appreciate affection much deeper, knowing that it could escape me at any moment.  I take nothing for granted: The warmth on my sheets... The stench of sweat and arousal... With the knowledge that it could all fade, I truly have learned how to savor.

Distance is a beautiful womb

Bringing each moment.to life.

"Angelito" photographed by Forbidden Light

The Power of Percussion

     My response was unexpected.  Sitting in the front row of an performance of experimental music.  I was totally captivated by the drummer, 1/3 of the trio.  The piano and saxophone were muted by my desire for the percussionist.  His face tightened with intensity, he played with so much tension.  His focus appeared to be painfully sharp.  Out of nowhere, I wanted nothing more than to make him cum.

     Ironically, when he wasn't playing I did not find him attractive.  But the moment he picked up his sticks or mallets, returning the beautiful agony to his face, my blood began to circulate towards my crotch again.  Witnessing his body struggle to harness his gift of chaotic rhythm, as if he was pinned beneath the weight of a passion almost too heavy... I had a visceral response to drop to my knees and offer this man some release.

     Getting deeper into their set, my mind started to imagine his naked thigh muscles tightening.  His fist pumping.  His head jerking backwards.  His mouth twisting into polygonal shapes.  Spurts of semen shooting off like liquid fireworks.  Hearing his cymbals clash, I swear I could taste the thick consistency sitting in my mouth.

I have been thinking about this experience ever since.

     My theory is that my subconscious mind responded reflexively.  His tension.  His intensity.  His rhythm.  His body rocking accordingly.  My desire to satisfy was triggered by his performance.  I began to remember several renditions of the same song played on my body.  Beats pounded in my bedroom.  Snares replaced by skin and bones.

     After his performance, I got a chance to shake his hand.  If he only knew where he took me.  My body responded to him in a series of head nods, dance moves and erections.  His songs awakened the rhythms lying dormant between my jaws...between my legs...on my lap.   He made me revisit the best sex I've ever had.

Does he knows the power he wields as a percussionist? 

Harry Belafonte...if he could take a fist.

     Have you ever ingested so much pornography your stomach felt full?  I have recently inherited a near-comprehensive library of vintage hardcore gay magazines...and getting through it have become my second job.  Its a labor of love.  Everyday, I devote a little time to inspecting and organizing every image.
     Flipping through the collection of "Knights of the Night", an adults-only periodical from the 80s, I fell in love.  He reminded me of Harry Belafonte, if he could take a fist...  Fred Williamson, if he had a penchant for white cock.  If I had a pornographic forefather, it would be this guy.  I love seeing retro black men in gay porn, its a beautiful thing.

Check out these images of "Depth Charge"

Poor Krishna

 

Scene I
Aisle 13: Produce Section

  Looking for baby spinach and zucchini, an Indian couple catches my eye.  The wife is beautiful.  Long, lustrous hair pouring down her back.  Exotic, intricate tapestries adorning her gorgeous figure.  Looking at her rogue-stained lips, I couldn’t help but wonder, “I wonder if she tasted my flavor on his kiss?”  A week prior, while she was at the salon, her husband and I shared an afternoon together.
     He looks so worried.  Keeping his eye on me, praying I do not say “Hi”, while pretending to not notice me at all.  I find it comical that his wife is so concerned with choosing the right mango, that she’s oblivious her husband’s paralysis.  Should I push my cart elsewhere?  Should I hurry and grab my cilantro?  No, I am enjoying the tension.  Grabbing his arm, she asks, “Do we have any onions at home?”
     Watching me without looking at me, he stutters, “No, I think we have onions at home already.”  The dissonance is palpable.  On one hand, he has his wife gathering ingredients to feed his family, and on the other, he is in the presence of a man who holds his deepest, most guarded secret.  He likes the way cock feels in his hands.  He loves when erections grow from within his mouth.  He loves to savor and indulge in the distinct flavor of ass.  “I wonder if she tasted my flavor on his kiss?”

Scene II
Check-Out #5

     I don’t know why I enjoy torturing him.  Perhaps, because I know I'll never see him naked again.  Deciding to stand behind them, I waited to pay for my groceries with the same cashier.  Occasionally glancing over his shoulder, I’d scratch my crotch for his eyes to see.  I remember how he marveled at my dick.  It was much different from his.  Much darker.  Much bigger.  As if he was handling new machinery, he awkwardly stroked my cock with care.  His eyes were frozen and fixated.  His hands were ripened with repression.  I was getting turned on replaying the memories in my mind.
     “Krishna?”  Her Indian accent chimes, breaking my daydream, “I forgot to get milk, could you run and get it?”  His lips were stiffened by hesitation.  Much like our kiss.  The narrow line makes our crossing paths inevitable.  The smirk on my face doesn’t make matters any better for him.  Poor, Krishna.

"Am I Still Human?" (Inspired by Samuel R Delany)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Ap(art): "Stalk"

     Flesh made from blood and ghosts, hair stolen from golden stallions.  Mama told me about them.  I was warned to stay away, but I can help but lean closer.  I want to see them....  smell them... taste their language as it echoes through the depths of our homeland.

     In spite of their proud, upright stance, the air reeks of their pungent fear.  A second thought follows every step of their stride.  Watching them turn their head like night owls, observant yet oblivious; they have no clue how close I am to them.  How can eyes that shine so brilliantly be so blind?

     Treading deeper into Mama's womb, they're now walking in darkness.  The branches and leaves block The Sun.  The winged ones are feasting on their bodies.  I could have their lives if my curiosity turned hungry. I could free the bloody ghosts from their skin.  I could adorn my home with their golden stallion mane.  I am close enough to taste the pink of their lips, snatching the red from their cheeks, but I'll let Mama deal with them.  I was warned to stay away.

"Stalk" by MimWeisbard / Model: Forbidden Light