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Home > Features > Stories: It's Too Big

(posted January 26, 2006)

The Size of You

by Mark Vicars

I am ready to tell you everything.

You ask that I profess despair and trace the origins of stories I have told of shit-stained fingers, of sour spunk that lingers on my breath, of the taste of piss in my mouth. You insist I imagine what is to be done to me and I find myself fixating on the endless repertoire of my shameful longings. Acts of kindness purloined from other men’s lips remain unspoken as I conjure up lies that in constant repetition create the conditions for my survival. To relinquish control and surrender, these are all I know because of you. Time has solidified these utterances into a recurring mantra. I find myself caught within a loop of continual craving. Every fibre, every sinew of hope strains, rearing and bucking against the realities of my imperfection.

It is becoming increasingly impossible to hold out in despair, to continue the search for salvation in the words of men I have yet to meet. It is easier to deposit my desire in the mouths of glossy porno images, in the men I pass by on the streets of my city. I imagine that one day soon I will have the courage to approach these men. I watch as they pass by, paying close attention to the curvature of squared-off shoulders, broad chests, flat stomachs and full-bodied cocks that lay nestled between piss blemished balls. One day yes, I will have the courage to follow them to back streets and I will do all that they demand. One day I will find myself with my face pressed up against one. Filling my mouth, he will push harder. With gentle coaxing, I will gulp down the body of another story-bound lover.

I know what it is to search. I have grown accustomed to the continuous motion of the surreptitious glance. Checking out the taut, the sleek and streamlined, I have secretly purloined fingers, cocks and fists that one day soon will reach inside me and banish these repetitive fictions. Styling lovers will understand that what I need has become a ritual, a daily routine, an addiction I have come to embrace. A man will start by issuing his instructions.

“Suck, relax your jaw and swallow, work your tongue deeper and tease my piss hole, taste the sticky threads of pre-cum upon your lips.”

By doing all he says, I will become a better person. His cock will dart desire in my body. It will force its way beneath skin and under muscle. I will become bordered by his musk, enclosed by his breath. He will map each place of surrender and conquest with globs of translucent spittle. Willingly, I will start to believe this new fiction being written now across my body.

How I have imagined this time, that moment. I wait and replay the scene and in the darkness I become hard. I know that somewhere deep within there is a memory of what it would feel like to have your tongue trace again the shape of my asshole. As it darts in amongst the puckered folds of skin gathering spittle to moisten, your mouth tears and rip. I come apart. You expose just how beautiful I can be made. I emerge loved.

I am ready to be fucked now, to feel you deep inside my gut. You slide your fingers slowly inside and I bite down hard to stop myself from shouting out “I love you.” You would think it pathetic if you knew how willingly I convince myself that your clenched fist has the power to render me beautiful.

Will you keep on pushing until you find your way deep inside? Will you look me in the eyes and see what it is you are making? I am being formed around your fist. As you start to push and prise apart the cheeks of my ass, coil finger around finger, I settle around the clenched contours and falter on the ache. I never imagined it was possible to be loved like this. With each spasm, I am starting to understand how it feels to belong to someone. All that lingers are the words I now imagine you say. I have come to fear that day when you will say nothing. Your silence will be too much for me to hear.

Will you have the courage to continue to see what it is you are making? Will your sex be all that remains on my lips and in my ass? Is this all you are prepared to leave of yourself? Will I have to do you again and again and again forever? Will our parting be one of those occasions when we both pretend we will do this some other time like never?

I have been colonised by the steady rhythm of language that drips from my tongue and stagnates my stories. I want to believe you continue to be real, but I am starting to doubt the truth of it all. I am not even sure that you really seek out my ass and my mouth in lust. I have come to distrust you, everyone. Can’t you just once put your arms around me and let me believe again? How easy this could be.

Are you in some expensive basement flat surrounded by books and collections of porn? Are you listening to classical music as your pull on your chaps and check on your supply of surgical gloves? I am wondering if one day soon you will reach out for me again and tell me that you love me. Will your tongue find mine? Will you taste your own cum on my lips? Will your mouth clamp itself on mine and consume what I believe you have overlooked?

You don’t see the scars on my body. You don’t see the careful sutured self that is bound together with your insistent demands. I roll over, lift my leg, lower my jaw, close my eyes, open my eyes. I flip into your arms and stay there while you work on me. I wait to see what it is I could become throughout your exertions. What is left of me now that you have finished?

I know that when you stop wanting me to flip, shift, push back, open wider, you will stop wanting me. I know how your glance will announce it is time to go. We break apart so that our bodies are barely touching and fumble for words that separate us from the acts we have just committed. We return to our lives. Now, for you, there must be a distance between us and what we have done.

You will never know how you have made me feel. You don’t care enough to find out why it is I let you do the things you do to me. I submitted to your demands. I am shaped by your breath. You told me what to do, but you didn’t see how I let you do it all. You assumed you could take whatever you wanted. You never imagined I would have anything else to give.

Didn’t you also hear the voices warn me not to say how much I have wanted you, how I managed to mouth “I love you” camouflaged as “fuck me now”? Did you also not see the way I found it easier to look at your cock and talk to your balls? How careful I was to avoid your gaze when we were fucking? I don’t want to spoil you. I didn’t want you to spoil me. But you kept on telling me how good my tight ass felt. I learned my cues from you. I became your spoil. You make me into a beautiful fiction to be consumed at a later date, but you consume all of me now.

I know what I am doing can be dangerous. I know that risk lurks in every kiss, in every finger, in every swallow, in every fist, but I am hooked. I am yearning to be with you and with all those men you order to fuck me while you look on.

“Keep them waiting,” you whisper.

I find myself shattering and the shards splinter into a kaleidoscope of “fuck me rough, fuck me hard, but most of all fuck me.” Their waiting always pays.

But I have waited too long for the time when it will all be perfect. You could have taken me from the bar, carried me to your room and I would have curved around you at night while you slotted seamlessly into my body. I am losing sight of you now. You are disintegrating with every stroke. You are beginning to crumble and fall away. I have not stopped wanting to touch and feel your skin under mine. But I am no longer able to sustain my stories. They too quickly become second-hand.

If you can hear me, if you are listening, you will understand why I need you to fly to my side and claim what belongs to you. If you can understand that I am running out of words with which to make you beautiful, you will appreciate the urgency and the necessity of this telling. Soon it will not matter if you don’t come. Soon it will be too late, because I will not be here. I will have replaced you. I will have made you so invisible that it would be impossible to ever catch sight of you again. You will be no more than a memory that is waiting to happen but has wore itself out in constant repetition.

There is one last thing I have to say and then I will be silent for you again. In waiting, I have discovered there is a kind of beauty. It is found in the gaze that lingers on the shaved head of the suited and booted. It is in the self caress that lovingly recreates your absent touch. It is in the half-whispered words recited on your behalf. It is present in the potential encounters offered in the looks of men I pass by in the street and in the smiles exchanged over bar counters, across urinals. It is mapped on the bodies of men who display their cocks and arses in internet chat rooms, to me.

It is in the stories I have told of shit-stained fingers, of sour spunk that lingers on my breath, and of the taste of piss in my mouth.

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