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1. Animal Lover (Perpetuum Mobile)
How we had fucked that night, and what a fuck we’d had! – a fuck headier than the fumes of alcohol, a fuck to rend the clouds asunder, an endless fuck, a fuck to bring down the punishment of the jealous gods! How we had clung together, writhed together, how my rigidity had filled him and refilled him! – he pushing up against me, I gnawing at his neck like an animal and pushing down into him with deep, measured, deliberate strokes, over and over until I felt the surge swell up in my loins and pumped wildly for those last incipient seconds, my whole body choked, and the two of us gave one strangled cry. The orgasm thrashed and jerked our joined bodies helplessly about. My sex pulsed inside him throbbing like a ghetto blaster, and his ring clamped tight around me to squeeze out my juices. I roared like a brute roars in agony or triumph.
We lay in silence, scarcely breathing in the astonished stillness that had witnessed the abandon of our lovemaking. The quiet spread outwards from our consummated union, and we heard the soft pop of my knob kissing his sphincter goodbye. He gasped and went limp beneath me.
We had fucked like there was no tomorrow, but tomorrow always comes. The night was spent, our passion was spent, we were spent, and in the twilight of approaching morning he murmured, “That was wonderful. You were wonderful. Sex is wonderful.”
“You don’t hurt?”
“No. I still feel you quivering inside me. My ass is full.”
“My balls are empty. Was I an animal again?”
“No, you were a lover.”
“I’m always a lover. I’m your lover.”
“You didn’t rub me raw like last week.”
“That because you shaved me yesterday. My prick wasn’t as prickly.”
“Last week you were an animal. You attacked me viciously. You ripped me apart. The edges of the bones that support my ass cheeks felt battered for days. The muscles inside me stayed stretched to your shape. My asshole was wide open.”
I cast a glance at his post-coital laxity. “It’s gaping right now. It looks like a fish that just landed on deck and sucks at the air trying to draw water into its gills. Like this.” I demonstrated with a kiss. “It looks like you want me back inside.”
“Are you still hard?”
“Of course I’m hard. I’m always hard when I have my hand on your butt.”
“I think I could take you again, not like last week. Last week I was sore as hell. Last week you were a fucking animal.”
“Am I ever any other kind of animal? I took you three times last week. How couldn’t you be sore?”
“The first fuck left me sore.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” A kiss.
“I did.”
“That was after the second fuck.”
“But you took me anyway.”
“You wanted it.” Another kiss.
“That’s what you say.”
“And if I take you again now, you’ll say you didn’t say you wanted it.” Another kiss. “You’ll say I’m an animal. You always call me an animal.”
“You always are an animal.”
“Don’t you like animals? I do. I love animals.” Another kiss.
My thumb was now deep inside his hole, worming its way in with twisting insistence to reach up and brush his twitching prostate, and he was squirming with pleasure and breathing heavily. I took him twice more before we got up that morning, and we fucked again the next night. I didn’t cum every time; we can have orgasms without it, just as intense and longer lasting. I must have fucked him seven times in all, and by the time I left he was tender, though not as tender as the week before. I was an animal that week. This week I was a lover. I never let him know which I going to be. I never know myself.
2. Sleep Numbers (Nocturne)
Why should I spend more to buy a vibrating or an adjustable bed when my sleep number is Paul? His arms are comfort enough, they both lull and excite. Though I am always rock hard when I lie in them, either I shall soon take my pleasure or have just taken it, in which case my sated erection does not nag me and I can fall asleep with it pressed peacefully against him or cupped gently in his hand if he lies nestled behind me.
When I curl up beside his legs and rest my head on the luxurious cushion of his butt, his boxers are not his armor; they are my pillowcase so we can sleep calmly all night and not wake to cheeks clammy with sweat. (I do not mean the same cheeks for both of us, you understand.) I hug my pillow, I kiss and caress it. How lovely to have two pillows side by side – not piled one on top of the other, for a single pillow like his raises my head to a perfect height – and to bury my thumb lengthwise between its double mounds and spread my fingers over one of them for an occasional reassuring squeeze! Nature has molded the hollow of his back and the roundness of my skull to fit together perfectly, his hip protrudes to his the space between my neck and shoulder, and my soft hair covers the spot like a fine fleece draped over a cradle, where I lie like a skiff anchored for the night on an almost still sea, rocked by his blissful breathing.
How can I describe the tranquil eroticism of feeling his yielding buttock fill the span of my palm? It is the very opposite of the frenzy of a fuck, the other side of love, or rather its durable center that soothes the soul, the peaceful desire that lingers on after the release of passion, when possession is complete. Sleep is more than an interlude; it is the consummation of union, the place to which we all return, as mysterious in its endless calm as sex is boisterous in celebration, and no less joyful.
My penis may remain awake all night, I have no way of telling. I imagine it a glowing crescent, swelling imperceptibly as it glides, lost and aimless, across the fixed stars of the Empyrean. It must nod off eventually and get some shuteye, I suspect, for it shows no sign of sluggishness in the morning. I only know that it needs less rest than I, for it stays up longer and stirs before I do.
3. Homo Faber (Da Capo)
Man the tool-maker. Does the human male’s innate love of tinkering – it is almost a compulsion – arise from his being endowed with such a lovely tool of his own, and one so exquisitely pleasurable to use? No wonder so many homines are homos!
Paul has a knack for home repairs. He can even adjust electrical equipment – not rewire: reset, regulate, adjust, fine tune – and he does it by eye, by touch, without measurements. He is not just a user of tools; as a machinist he makes them, and he has intimate knowledge of their construction, durability and applications, many of which are never mentioned in the instructions that come with them. His skill is unsurpassed, as I can attest, for no one has ever used mine so expertly, treated it so lovingly – one would think he had no more prized possession – or lavished such care on it. His are no ordinary handjobs and blowjobs, they are fine tunings that calibrate my ecstasy, and if my equipment ever runs down he can reset it within seconds by the touch of a finger or the tip of his tongue.
While I regret that he does not make more frequent use of his own quite functional tool, beautifully formed to delight any workman, though smaller and more delicate than many and not always reliable, I have no cause to complain that he favors mine. He is both its master and its slave. He never tires of admiring it, handling it, tasting it, sampling it in ways that involve all his senses to reacquaint himself with it after being away from it for as little as a few short hours. I say “all his senses” so as not to exclude that unnamed sixth sense, at once physical and supernatural, which puts him in contact not with the phenomena in the world outside him, but opens him up to a universe of internal sensations that come at him from both ends.
At the top end I just lie there caressing any part of his body within reach and let him suck the sensations into him. Here my whole tool is brought into play; the bottom end principally involves the head and the shaft, and perhaps my nuts for some light slapping. When he goes down on me, his mouth gives my tool a veritable salon treatment. I spread my legs in sighing submission for a wash, polishing and massage. No lube leaves me as slippery as his deep throat. My tool looms larger and feels like it covers a wider area than my visible genitals, for his attentions reach as far as the neurotransmitters that spread out from the center of my pleasure.
He puts my tool to more uses than I ever imagined it had, but he prefers that I use it to work his sweet ass, sometimes as a wedge, a drill-bit, a reamer, or whatever you call that tool designed to extract a core plug, but principally in its capacity as a hammer.
All our lovemaking leads to that final wild ride. We fuck at a gallop, in an on-rushing spurt of tingling energy, on and on beyond exhaustion till we collapse coupled in tangled sleep – soft breathing, body warmth, enfolding arms, the musky scent of male sex, a readied lance pointing straight out from my listless loins. We may fuck again when morning dissipates the darkness of the room in which we lie.
Coda: You don’t need me to tell you what instruments I wrote these movements for and who shall play them.
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Double Concerto